There Was Never Any Doubt
by whychenbachfall
Summary: A slow-starting Johnlock. Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock has returned into John's life and expects him to drop everything; as usual. But John's slightly hesitant to forgive him- until an old enemy makes a reappearance. Some smut later on in the fic, mostly just cute friendship stuff at first but develops eventually. Warning - sad ending.
1. Forgive Me

'You made me believe you were dead.'

He was stood there so simply- as if it hadn't been a whole five months since they'd seen each other. His long black coat still fitted his slender form perfectly, and the compassion in his eyes was all but missing. John reached out with his fist to make the contact he'd so desperately craved for what seemed like an eternity; however there was no power behind it. No fury. Sherlock simply held on and stopped his anger in its tracks.

'You never believed I was dead, John. Not for one second.'

He pulled John's arm towards him and the rest of his body followed – his head fitting perfectly in the dip of Sherlock's shoulder.

Usually in those situations he'd have made a joke; said something about their reputation or how people would get the wrong idea, but he closed his eyes and lost himself in Sherlock's presence. His best friend was back, and he would not be leaving again. He'd make sure of it.

Twenty minutes later, they were sat in the living area of 221B, as if Sherlock never faked his death and caused his 'arch-enemy' to commit suicide.

_Fucking hell, did he even commit suicide?_ Panic flashed in John's eyes for a second. He'd seen Sherlock dead on the pavement. Blue, glossed over eyes, blood all over the pavement, blood all over his head…

Yet there he was. Sat in front of him, with his legs crossed and his head high.

_If he could fake his death so brilliantly, could Moriarty have done the same?_

'So how did you do it?'

'…I'm sorry?'

'Sherlock, you were dead. They took your pulse, I saw you on the pavement.'

Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers together and rested them against his forehead, smiling knowingly at the ground.

'My homeless network.' He leapt off his chair and instantly began to pace the room. 'I made sure they were the people making up the majority of the street where I fell. I did some research, and noticed that there would be a laundry truck near the building at the time I would be jumping.'

John's head began to spin and he sipped his tea patiently, fighting with all of his will to resist the urge to raise his eyebrows or roll his eyes.

'I asked one of the homeless network to be sure that a laundry cart from the truck in question was near the base of the building, as to ensure me a soft and safe landing. I asked another to be sat on the bench in front of the building with a blood pack and some coloured contacts ready. I immediately climbed out of the cart and fell to the floor beside the large group of homeless who had gathered around the spot where I supposedly 'landed', obscuring the view of any pedestrians. The homeless man on the bench applied the blood to my head and put the contacts in my eyes, whilst another I had prepared knocked you to the ground with his bike, giving me more time.'

John scoffed and glared at him with disbelief. 'I had bruises from that for months.'

'Yes, a minor setback, but necessary. I apologise.'

'Your body was taken away. In an ambulance. By people who are TRAINED to tell whether somebody is alive or dead.'

'Boring humans are silly little things with silly little brains, and even the ones gifted enough to train in the medical profession are just simply lazy. As soon as they cannot detect your pulse, they announce you dead and pass you on to the next authority without question. Lucky for me, the next authority was Molly who I'd explained the entire situation to beforehand, and I simply applied pressure to a major artery in my arm by concealing a small rubber ball in my elbow. Simple task, but easy to overlook.' He sank back into his chair.

John stood and walked into the kitchen, with his head lowered. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, pausing to take in everything that he'd heard. There was a sickening lump in the back of his throat that prevented any sound from escaping his mouth, and every small noise in the room seemed amplified.

'You told Molly that you were going to fake your death, but you didn't think it appropriate to tell me?'

'John, the circumstances I was in meant that telling you would worsen matters.'

His brain was whirring. He'd never felt so betrayed, yet his brain was still trying to process the return of the man he'd spent the last year or so despising and yet completely respecting at the same time. 'So why couldn't you tell me, Sherlock? What could Moriarty have possibly said, possibly threatened to do, that could scare you enough to convince you to fake your own death? I was so alone, Sherlock. I had no-one after you left. For MONTHS I didn't know what to do with myself. I lost my job, I didn't leave the house, and my leg is playing up again.' He gestured to the crutch resting by my arm chair and then back at him. Sherlock had his eyes closed and his hands were clasped, resting on his knees. 'So please tell me – because so far, considering my life could not have been any worse for the past five months, I've been very welcoming to you – what possibly motivated you into ruining years of work, and abandoning our friendship?'

Sherlock's mouth opened gently and his lips began to twitch, tasting the words that he was considering using but determining which would be the most effective. His eyes flickered open and couldn't meet John's – and at that instant he knew that although he couldn't possibly have felt a more burning hatred for the arrogant, egotistical, ignorant bastard, it would simply break him to pieces if he lost him again.

'John. I need you to understand, I-' his voice cracked and in an instant, he knew something wasn't right. John's heart warmed. Genuine compassion. 'I needed you to think I was dead, and I needed people to see me die. Moriarty was threatening to-'

'Oh, Sherlock! I came up as soon as I saw the papers this morning. I knew you weren't a fake, oh come here sweetheart.' Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway and ran to Sherlock, grabbing his startled face in her hands and kissing him tenderly all over. He glanced at John for help, panic flaring in his eyes, and forced him to stifle a giggle. The explanation could wait; he had his best friend back.

She released his face and slapped him sharply across the cheek. 'Don't you ever do that to this poor man again!' She gestured to John and Sherlock turned to glare out of the window. 'He was absolutely inconsolable. Imagine, making your partner think you're dead, without even an explanation or a kiss goodbye…'

John rose to his feet to protest. 'Mrs Hudson, we still aren't a-'

'I don't know how you put up with him John, I really don't.' She left the room mumbling, still tutting in disgust.

'What did she mean about the papers?'

'Hm, what? Oh.' Sherlock spun to face him with a sly grin spreading across his face. 'Having one of the most powerful men in the country as your brother does tend to have its advantages. Even if he is an arrogant sod.'

'Well they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree-'

'Yes well that's unimportant. He got in contact with the media, cleared my name. Everything is fine now. Let's go down to the station, and find a case.'

He leapt over the table and threw John his jacket, whipping on his coat and a scarf in the blink of an eye. 'oh GOD yes I've missed this. I do hope there's been a murder. Or maybe a suspicious suicide. OH YES what if there's a bank robbery, or a mass grave uncovered? So many crimes, so little time. Come on John, the game is back on!'

'I have a date tonight, Sherlock.'

His head appeared in the doorframe and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 'And?'

'I'm busy tonight. It's been planned for weeks.'

'But I'm back now.' He looked almost in complete disbelief, and nodded his head to one side expectantly, beckoning John to go with him.

'I can't cancel a date just because my best friend has returned from the grave, it's not polite.'

'I'll let you examine the body first, provided there is one'

'Really?'

'Probably not. Worth a shot.'

John sighed in frustration. His heart was skipping, and the pain in his leg had completely dissolved.

'I'll call a taxi.' Sherlock winked, and was gone.


	2. Impress Me

'Good to see you back, Sherlock.' Greg Lestrade was sat with his legs resting on his desk; a rippling cup of coffee in one hand and a half eaten sausage roll in the other.

'Ah, hard at work as usual I see! Surprisingly I must say I've missed you, Lestrade.'

'Hello Freak.'

'You, on the other hand, not so much.'

Donavon scowled as she entered the room and swept past John without acknowledgement, almost knocking him off his feet. Just the mere sight of her smug face snapped something within him and he felt the combined anger of five months of loneliness and desperation stirring in his stomach. 'How on earth do you still have a job?' he spat.

'I don't know what you're talking about.' She crossed her arms and stuck her tongue in her cheek, raising her eyebrows at Lestrade as if silently hinting for help.

'You falsely accused a man of attempted murder and various other crimes, and had the entirety of the police force hunting him down even though he didn't do any of it. Surely there must be some repercussions of that?'

Sherlock smiled at the ground, glancing up to observe Donavon's reaction.

'Well, uh-' she swallowed, choking on the start of her next word. 'F-fortunately, there wasn't enough evidence proving my immediate involvement, so I was let off.'

She stood from the corner of Lestrade's desk and attempted to leave with the remains of her dignity.

'What a shame there was enough evidence to prove to your husband that you were having an affair. Oh well, we all make mistakes I suppose. Unfortunately for him, you were his.' Sherlock's voice cut the tension in the air like glass, and Donavon's hand hovered on the door-handle.

'I….I-'

'Don't try and hide it, Donavon. The bags under your eyes give everything away, as does the weight gain and the sudden lack of care for your personal hygiene.'

John bit his lip to force back a smile, and she left in silence.

'Sherlock, I understand you're upset but you didn't have to be so vicious.'

'You are forgetting Lestrade that the hateful woman did try to have me arrested.'

'And YOU are forgetting, Sherlock Holmes, that most of us were praying under our breath that she was successful. Now, the Astalet Café in central London, I'll text you the address. Woman found dead on the floor in the bathroom, no explanation.'

Ten minutes later and they were in a taxi on the way to the latest crime scene.

'You were angry with her.'

'What was that?'

'Donavon.' Sherlock shifted in his seat to face John directly. 'You were angry with her, yet she did nothing directly to you. Why?'

John raised his eyebrows and studied Sherlock's face for any signs of joking, or any clue that he wasn't being serious. All he noticed were the sharp outlines of his inquisitive face, and how once more his eyes seemed to match the background of their location. 'You- you don't know why I would be angry with Donavon?'

'Of course. She didn't try and get you arrested, nor did she accuse you of anything. In fact, I assumed you would've been grateful to her.'

John's mouth dropped open in disbelief. Grateful? That she'd played a part in taking away John's closest and -on some days- only friend? 'Sherlock. Why do you think I was upset with her?'

Sherlock's head snapped back to face the front of the taxi, and he was unresponsive for the next ten minutes. John rubbed his neck and tried to take another secretive glance at Sherlock's face, reassuring himself in his own mind that he was back for good. He clearly hadn't slept for days because his face seemed pale and hollow, and even when concentrating, his eyes looked distant. He was wearing his purple shirt, which John had pointed out on one too many occasions was too tight, however in the fast-moving street lamps it seemed to accentuate his slim chest and waist perfectly. He gritted his teeth and John saw the outline of his jaw and cheekbones sharpen, which left a lump in his throat. He felt his face flush red, and he slipped his hand under his collar. He'd never had thoughts like that before.

A sudden grin appeared on Sherlock's face. The corners of his eyes wrinkled, and his eyes seemed to flash.

'What? What's made you so happy?' John began to get uncomfortable. Sherlock wasn't a mind reader now, was he?

'You care about me.'

There was a thick silence in the air.

'Well, uh, yes I mean-' John coughed and tried to stop his breath from catching. Jesus fuck why was he acting this way? He had nothing to be embarrassed about for god's sake, he's just catching up with his friend. 'Of course I do. You're my best friend.'

'That's not what I was implying, John.' The car came to a halt, and John threw the door open- reaching the fresh air as soon as he could. He bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths to steady himself. The next thing he felt was a slender hand on the small of his back, and hot breath against his ear.

'Why do you think I came back, John?'

Shivers ran down his back, and he watched Sherlock sweep imposingly into the small café.

John took a second to understand what was happening. He leant against the outside of the building, letting the rough, cool stone touch the back of his head and settling his rapidly raising temperature. His breathing was jagged and heavy, and it wasn't until he looked down and noticed the slight bulge in the front of his trousers being a little larger than usual, that he finally realised what was going on. 'Oh god. Oh god, oh god. Oh god.' He rubbed his eyes repeatedly and started walking from one side of the building to the other. 'Oh god.' The way his hot breath had felt against his ear. 'Oh god.' The slight pressure on his back from Sherlock's powerful fingers. 'Oh jesus, god.' His phone vibrated.

_Come on John, impress me. – SH_

'Lestrade, you really can be an insult to my intelligence sometimes.' Sherlock Holmes was looking down over the latest body, which was laying on its side in a dark blue tiled bathroom. The body was a sixty-something year old woman, with red/brown hair and patches of grey growing through. Her eyes were wide open and so was her mouth. It was a panicked death, John could tell.

'This was clearly a murder. Analyse the fingerprints, find the person. Why did you even call me here, Lestrade?  
'Well, a woman runs to the bathroom alone, nobody follows her and in a few minutes she's dropped dead. Doesn't it seem a bit strange?' He gestured to the dead woman, frustrated, and a man who John had assumed was her husband sobbed loudly.  
'Oh do be quiet sir, if she'd rushed to the bathroom in such a hurry she clearly knew she was going to be killed which means she's probably done something to warrant being killed; it was probably her own fault.' Sherlock crouched next to the body and turned away from the grieving husband, who was now crying even louder.  
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. He thought the answer was obvious, but Sherlock had managed to deduce something entirely different than him…was he being an idiot?  
'Just confirms my suspicions' he scowls 'this one was too easy, much too easy.' He beckoned John and Lestrade over to the body, and threw himself onto the floor like an emotionally unbalanced teenager.

'Here, purple bruises and dents on the woman's neck. There have clearly been hands around it, and if you look at her nails, they're chipped. That indicates a struggle. However, the marks aren't deep enough to have caused any real damage or to have been sustained for long, so that wasn't the cause of death- she would have just fallen unconscious.'  
John couldn't stand hearing this much longer. He was miles away from the solution. Miles and miles.  
'So how did she die, I bet you're wondering. Well, if you check her stomach-' He lifted the side of her shirt to show the left side and front of her stomach- she was lying on the right hand side. 'Here, red and purple, all over her stomach. The fact that she's on her side means she was probably kicked; hard. At her age, repetitive violent kicking could very easily cause some internal haemorrhaging, that's how she died, pretty obvious, and you're all idiots. Case closed.'

He walked triumphantly to the door and stood in the doorway, back to us. 'Come on John, we're leaving.''

That's when it happened. The two words that changed John's life forever. He didn't know why he said them, and he certainly didn't know how he got the courage. He just looked up, stared straight forward, and muttered- '**You're wrong.**'

Sherlock froze on the spot, and glanced over his shoulder. 'I beg your pardon?' He said slowly, almost spitting on the word 'pardon', as if he didn't want John's pardon at all and he actually wanted him to fall to the floor and beg.

'I said you're wrong' John faced him, gaining confidence and smiling a little when he said it. Sherlock turned and stood directly opposite him, towering above him by at least a foot.

'When I said 'impress me',' he spat, so close John could feel every single word he uttered on his face, 'I didn't mean show off, or act like you know everything. That's my job, don't forget that.'  
Something about him was terrifying, haunting, yet attractive all at the same time. John decided to have as much fun as he could, despite the fact that his heart was racing. 'Let me to the body, and maybe I'll show you.'

'Be. My. Guest.' He enunciated every word, a constant scowl on his face.

'The marks on her neck, they have little half moon marks above them. Half moon marks which are made by acrylic nails; it's an easily recognisable mark. That means the person who held her throat was either a woman with acrylic nails, or herself. It's easy enough to assume that it was just a female killer but if you check the fingers of the body, there are still dents on her fingerprints where she was holding her own neck. There's also some blood under the nails from where some dug a little too hard in. There's missing lipstick around the corners of her mouth where it's been wiped off, and you can see that on her thumb and index finger which means she had those in her mouth too. So I'm pretty sure she was choking and trying to get something out of her throat; so she ran to the bathroom to get a better look.'

He tipped back her head and held the miniature torch from his pocket in the front of her mouth, examining her throat. . 'There's definitely something there. Like a block or carrot, or something similar. So here, around the base of her stomach and the top of her legs,' He pulled up her shirt again and gestured to an abundance of stretch marks. 'Stretch marks like this are formed when somebody puts on a lot of weight in a short period of time, so I'm assuming she went from keeping herself relatively healthy to doing no movement at all. The only reasons I can think of for that is either an injury, or surgery. Did she have any recent surgery at all?' He asked her husband.

'Yes,' he sniffled a few times, 'she had her stomach operated on last week.'

He turned her onto her front and laughed, a loud, short burst of laughter-'HA'- before covering his mouth with his hand. There were stitches on her right hand side, the side which she was lying on.

An enormous smile had spread across his face at this point. 'The stitches are at the perfect height for these sinks. She ran in, clutching her throat in panic, and went directly to the mirror- running into the sink and rupturing the stitches in her stomach, causing internal bleeding and eventually death. It was an accident.'

Sherlock turned and left the room. Lestrade stifled a chuckle, and then kept a straight face for the sake of the widower, still crying by his side.

John's mind immediately jumped to Sherlock. Was he upset? Maybe he was angry. Where had he gone? Was he coming back? John stumbled slightly as he walked outside, just imagining for a second the possibility that he could've lost his best friend once more, just by showing off. It was a ridiculous idea; Sherlock had asked him to impress him, and he'd done his best! Hadn't he?

He didn't even know what he'd expected to happen. He didn't want anything to happen, of course. What had happened earlier was just a strange accident; John hadn't had sex in a few months and I suppose the slightest amount of human contact was enough to get his heart racing. _Yes, that must've been it. _He convinced himself. What he'd felt for Sherlock was physical, nothing more.

John leant his head against the window and glared in at the waitress working the counter. She was young, maybe 30 or so, no ring on her finger. He could try his chances, possibly ask her out on a date -nothing too expensive-, maybe try to get her drunk and then-

'I'm impressed. Very.'

The breath was hot against his neck this time, and his hand was twisted behind his back, pushing his body against the window. Sherlock's lips were resting against the base of his skull, tickling every nerve with every word. John's jeans instantly tightened and he was aware of every person in the café being able to glance at the window and watch his predicament unfold. He opened his mouth to protest and Sherlock snaked one hand across the front of his stomach, so only a small moan escaped. His face flushed red with embarrassment at losing control so easily.

'Oh, so eager, and I thought you didn't miss me.' Sherlock released him and John spun around to face him; but he was already walking into the distance.

'New case tomorrow John, I expect to be impressed further.'


	3. Help Me

John lay down in bed that night, and thought of Sherlock.

Nothing in particular, and it wasn't really that different considering he'd been thinking about Sherlock almost every night since the terrible fall, however this time he was thinking differently.

Instead of grieving for the loss of his closest friend, he was basking in the glow of his return. Instead of trying to convince himself that he survived, and would come back to him- he was trying to promise himself that he'd never be alone again. Instead of the horrific flashbacks of the glassy eyes and the thick blood cascading through the cracks in the pavement, he was thinking back to how easily he lost his mind when Sherlock dragged his hand across his stomach and pressed his lips against his neck.

And for the first night in five months, John slept easily, and with a smile on his face.

The next morning, he awoke with a rather uncomfortable lump which was rising the bedcovers by a few inches. He groaned and reached into the front of his boxers, testing gently to see if he'd have enough time to 'sort himself out' before getting up. He made a decision and tilted his head back, flashing through various scenarios to get him going. He thought of the girl in the café, her short skirt and tight fitting top. That helped. He started stroking gently, being as quiet as possible in case somebody was awake. Images of past partners flashed into his mind, one's he'd had sex with, some that had sucked him off….

_John._

It was Sherlock's voice. His hand paused, and he shook his head to clear his mind. He refused to think about Sherlock that way, no matter what had happened the night before.

_John._

Jesus, even when it was just his imagination, Sherlock's voice was fucking annoying. He began stroking slowly again, focusing on the last time he'd had sex. It had been with a red haired girl, very slim, but very flexible. She could do this thing with her tongue-

'John, get up and stop ignoring me. We have a new case.'

John's eyes flew open and he instantly withdrew his hands from the bedcovers and sat up, glaring at Sherlock who was stood in the doorway looking impatient.

'Do you mind?! Could you try maybe texting me next time, or possibly just calling from behind the door?' He bundled the bedcovers to hide his still-raging erection and was very aware that Sherlock had never seen him without a shirt on before.

'Yes, well I did try calling you, but you seemed to be occupied with…other things.'

John cleared his throat and sat up further in bed, trying to maintain the illusion that he'd been sleeping innocently. Sherlock folded his arms and huffed.

'Come along John, I haven't got all day.'

John could feel his boxers snagging as he moved. He froze on the spot and began to stutter. 'I…I- just give me a minute to wake up, will you Sherlock?'

He didn't move. He simply smirked at John squirming under the covers.

'John, although I may not seem it sometimes, I am-in fact- a man. And I understand the problems that some men may face in the morning. Therefore, get up. I won't mind.'

'I'm surprised you even know what an erection is. I would've thought you'd, y'know, delete it or something.'

'Oh, you'd be surprised.' And he was gone, leaving John with 1000 more thoughts and concerns than he'd had about 10 seconds previous. He stood up and pulled on his jeans, making sure to be careful about his stubborn cock leaving an imprint on the side of his leg. Usually when he was interrupted or surprised, it'd go down pretty quickly, but something was different today. Maybe it was the small suspicion in the back of his mind that Sherlock had been watching him-

_No. _He shook his head. Sherlock was a friend. An arrogant, cold-hearted bastard of a friend, whom he loved dearly.

Not _love _love, of course. No, he just needed him. A lot. And these needs did NOT include a need for sexual release.

The taxi horn honked violently from outside and he knew Sherlock was getting impatient. When they departed from 221B Baker Street, John was aware of Sherlock's eyes being on him for the entire journey. They started on his face, and John's lips began twitching. He had a natural pout, which always made him either seem concentrated or irritated. Although to be fair, when he was working with Sherlock Holmes, either one of those emotions would have been accurate. He felt his eyes shift to his neck, and then down to his chest. John felt himself blushing which was completely ridiculous; he had a shirt and a thick grey jumper on- yet it felt like Sherlock could see through every inch of the thread with his analytical, imposing gaze. It was only when Sherlock's view dropped to just below his belt line that John felt the need to interject.

'Excuse me, can I help you with something?'

'Not at all.'

'Then, why were you- actually, never mind. Drop it, forget I said anything.'

'You're wondering why I was studying your body.'

'Wondering why you were staring at me is probably more realistic.'

Sherlock ran his tongue across the top of his teeth in thought and sighed, defeated.

'I wanted to work out whether you….let's say….'finished what you started' earlier. Looking at the tension in your hips and shoulders tells me that you clearly didn't.'

John gulped. Was it that obvious? A better question was, did he really make it that obvious earlier?

Right on time, the car stopped again. Another escape. John stumbled out of the car which had heated up significantly and the latest body was literally almost under his feet. A young girl, about 15-16 was lying flat on her back, on the centre of the pavement. Her head was in a pool of blood, and her eyes were whitened and open in a horrified stare. John's heart stopped and the world started to tilt. He'd been in this situation before, seen someone in a similar position. Sherlock's powerful grip locked onto his shoulder to keep him steady, and he snapped back to his senses.

'Blow to the head. Even an idiot would notice that.' John laughed light-heartedly, wiping his smile immediately from his face when he saw Lestrade turn his back in embarrassment. Sherlock spent the next twenty minutes studying the body and grunted disapprovingly, indicating that his investigation was complete.

'I just don't understand. This usually comes so easily to me, everything adds up, it all makes sense usually but now I'm looking and everything seems irrelevant or uninteresting or boring and nothing is USEFUL anymore. I don't even know how to observe or deduce or show off.' He was babbling and flailing his hands wildly when speaking. The distress was showing in his eyes and he was getting louder and angrier and John didn't know what to do.

'John, PLEASE. Help me. Tell me what I'm doing wrong. I can't TAKE THIS.'

Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed and he looked terrified and upset. Possibly even embarrassed. He had hold of John's shoulders and was looking at him directly, which made John shiver. He didn't know why.

He walked slowly to a collection of hedges and started digging around, determination shrouding his face.

'A-ha!' He retracted his arm from the shrubbery and was holding a bloodied brick, crumbling from the remaining force of impact.

'How the bloody hell did you find that?!' Lestrade walked over, open-mouthed in disbelief and handed the brick to Anderson, who scowled and packed it into a plastic bag. John beamed- another case he'd solved. The exception was, this was ALL him.

'Her skirt is ripped and she's been left carelessly in the centre of the pavement. Looking at the colour of her skin and blood coagulation, she's been there since about 2am. I assumed she was raped, and if the murderer/rapist/whatever he is had any real plan to what happened, he would've disposed of the body afterwards. I knew the brick was the murder weapon because there's collective copper-coloured dust around the area of the hit. The building site directly next to where it happened was another clue. I'm pretty sure she was killed because she tried to phone someone…her phone is over there by the wall. The only decent place to hide a weapon in a hurry around here is those hedges. It's the only logical solution. Analyse the fingerprints on the dress, brick and phone, and you have your killer.'

John glanced around with a proud grin across his face, but Sherlock Holmes was no-where to be seen.

He decided to grab a coffee, and returned to the crime scene an hour later- spotting an attractive 40-something woman sitting on a bench by the murder site. She was alone, and John couldn't help notice she had beautiful bone definition. Her mouth was full and soft, and when she breathed in he could see the outline of her cheekbones. It seemed oddly familiar, but all he could think about was the image of gripping her hair, pulling her down onto him-

_God, I AM sexually frustrated._

'What's a beautiful woman like you doing in a horrible place like this? Aren't you cold?' He sat next to her- just keeping his distance, so he didn't seem too pushy. It was the middle of winter, and it was already getting dark. Most of the officers were going home.

'I'm not interested, I'm sorry.'

Wow, at least she was blunt.

'Well at least let me get you a lift home, maybe buy you a drink? You look like you've had a bad day. I'm sure I could make it a lot better, if you gave me a chance.'

She glanced disgustedly at him, and John raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

'Mrs Stevens, they're taking your daughter's body to the morticians. You may say your goodbyes, if you wish.'

The woman next to John stood up and wiped her eyes, storming off and was replaced by Sherlock Holmes.

'Mother. Of course. Of bloody course.' John exhaled sharply and looked at the sky. Stars were beginning to appear.

'What was I doing wrong, John? I'm a genius for god's sake. They expect me to know what to do, and I made a fool out of myself. Again.'

'Sherlock, you need to understand. You were living undercover for five months. Five whole months without your brain constantly working at that capacity. Nobody can blame you if you're a little rusty; give it time.'

Sherlock stared at John and started mumbling under his breath. Slight whispers that John struggled to make out. Something along the lines of-

_That means I'm allowed_

_It's only fair if _

_It's the polite thing to do_

And then he turned back to face forward. And then he shuffled further along the bench, until his leg was resting against John's. His hands began fiddling together wildly, and for once in his life, Sherlock didn't know what to say.

Eventually, he closed his eyes.

'You impressed me again today.'

John held his breath. Last time he'd heard these words, Sherlock had, well, groped him. Groped was the best way to put it…although John hated to admit, it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

_Who am I kidding? I loved it. I know I did._

He tried to shake the thoughts away.

'John, you're still tense. Tenser than earlier, actually. You were trying your luck with the crying woman.'

'In my defence, I didn't know she was crying-' He was cut off by Sherlock's hand on his thigh. Sherlock's hair against his face. Sherlock's lips against his.

'You helped me when I asked, John,' Sherlock whispered breathlessly, 'and now it's my turn to help you.'


	4. Teach Me

John's attention snapped to the gentle stroking of Sherlock's fingertips along his inner leg.

'Sherlock, I- what are you doing?'

'Oh, is that not right?' his hand whipped back and his innocent eyes bore into John's.

'I…' he exhaled deeply twice and blinked. 'What?'

'Is that not working for you? I could touch somewhere else if you'd like. I'm not the most practised in- I mean I'm not entirely sure what to do when….how do I please you, John?'

'Please me? Pl- oh god' he jumped up and scurried behind the bench, squatting uncomfortably and holding his hands over his eyes. 1,000,000 thoughts were rushing through his head at light-speed and he couldn't help noticing that the light of the day had completely vanished and the bitter cold was almost slicing at his cheeks. He saw a thin white mist above his head and realised it was from Sherlock's breath - He was kneeling on the bench and leaning forward, so his body was above John's.

'I've been contemplating this for a while, John. You're clearly sexually frustrated and I've been taking up all your time. I'm not planning on getting rid of my doctor anytime soon unfortunately, so I've decided to help you out.' His hands slid down John's shoulders and across to the front of his chest, kissing him softly on his head. John jumped up and turned to face him, opening and closing his mouth in confusion. It may have been dark but it was still only about 7pm and anybody could have seen them. He could only imagine what the papers could say if they were caught together.

**'Sherlock's Home?- Local celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes seems to have found love at last, in the form of his doting companion John Watson.'**

**'Sherlocked- Consulting Detective and Army Doctor caught embracing in local public park.'**

Sherlock pulled himself over the bench and leant back on the edge, one eyebrow raised.

'Well, I don't see why you should need to do this, I mean…jesus Sherlock, how long have you felt like this?'

'Oh there's no emotional aspect of this!' Sherlock laughed. 'This is purely physical. A kind of experiment, if you will.'

John's heart sank and he found himself disappointed. Disappointed?! Yesterday he was sure the man was dead, let alone considering a bloody office romance! 'An experiment? I suppose, if it's for science I mean, I could possibly do my part…'

'Well, I say experiment. It's more for my own benefit, realistically. I'm sexually naïve, John. I've never been with a woman or a man in my entire life.' He lurched forwards and took John's hands, making his pulse race slightly. 'Teach me, John. I know everything a person could possibly know- except for how to pleasure somebody.'

A twitch raised the front of John's jeans and he found himself biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself steady. He knew that he wanted this; his body wouldn't have reacted in this way if he didn't. He'd just never felt sexually attracted to a man before.

He knew he still liked women; Jesus he'd almost managed to get off to the mere image of one the other morning until Sherlock had burst in and interrupted him, and even then his erection refused to go down-

because Sherlock was in the room. That must have been it.

So, bisexual then? Possibly. Maybe it was just Sherlock's allure. He certainly had one, anyway. No strings attached sex? He could cope with that…just about. He needed to make some rules for himself, and he couldn't let himself fall for the brilliant cold-hearted man, either.

'Ok Sherlock, we have a deal. But not here- we need to do it properly. Call a taxi, we're going back to the apartment.'

The taxi journey on the way home was uncomfortably silent. The more he thought about what was to come, the more nervous John Watson was. It seems as if even when he was the more practised in the skills of the trade; he felt the need to impress Sherlock.

'Did it feel good earlier?' Sherlock turned to him, inquisitive.

'Did- did what feel good?'

'The kiss. I kissed you. It was a complete shot-in-the-dark, and I wanted to know if I got it right.'

John found himself subconsciously running his tongue across his lips, and caught Sherlock staring at it- watching every millimetre of movement.

'It wasn't really much of a kiss, more like a peck really. Real kisses are usually deeper, and controlled.'

'Can I try again? Properly, this time. Then you can tell me how I did afterwards.'

'Here? In the taxi?' John's head darted around and he could've sworn the windows began to fog.

'The taxi driver won't notice- he's used to it. Besides, if he does, we just tip him an enormous sum and tell him to keep his mouth shut.'

'Well,' John cleared his throat and adjusted his collar. 'I suppose you can-MMPH'

Sherlock lurched forward and pressed his lips against John's once more. This time, the kiss was much more definite, and they remained in the embrace for no longer than 7 seconds.

John forced the twitching corners of his mouth away from a smile and gave Sherlock a sarcastic thumbs up.

'So? Am I a good kisser?'

John scoffed slightly. 'Well, it wasn't bad for a starter kiss I suppose…'

'A starter kiss? What do you mean- did I do something wrong?'

John noticed the genuine confusion and panic in his eyes, which were tinged slightly differing shades of turquoise in the current light. 'Well, that wasn't really a full kiss. People kind of do other things when they kiss. Bloody hell Sherlock, have you never watched any soap operas? Maybe a Rom-Com? Surely you must have seen two people kiss before.'

'All triva, nothing necessary. Television is just a waste of my time when I could be filling my mental spectrum with much more useful things.'

The car pulled up outside 221B and Sherlock ran ahead inside, leaving John to lightly trace the shape of his lips and convince himself that the situation was real. He felt light-headed and strange, and began to pray that it wasn't a dream simply because of how awkward it would be speaking to Sherlock in the usual way the next day. When he walked into the foyer of the apartment block, Sherlock was sat on the bottom step impatiently tapping his fingers. He gestured for John to sit next to him and placed his fingertips together in thought.

'So, how does one kiss properly? Is there a length of time, or a certain amount of pressure that needs to be applied? Maybe there's a perfect angle of trajectory for lip placement…'

'Well, most people involve hand movements.' John gulped, wondering whether he was pushing it too far. Sherlock wanted to learn, but what was he willing to do? 'Touching, rubbing maybe. And they open their mouths to deepen the kiss.'

'Open their mouths? That's quite strange. What if their tongues got in the way?'

John had to bite his lip to stop himself from giggling. 'That's the point. Your tongues are supposed to touch. It's kind of a trust thing in some ways.'

'So do you trust me?'

'To the ends of the earth.' John hadn't expected the words to be formed so easily. But it was undoubtedly true.

Sherlock's hand ran through John's hair, which was still fairly short but had grown to a respectable length since he'd neglected to cut it since Sherlock disappeared. There was a good handful available at least, and Sherlock proved this by tangling it impetuously through his fingers. Their lips impacted once more, but this time it was different. Sherlock had complete control and entered the kiss with purpose, instantly separating John's lips with his tongue and pushing into him in such a way that his head was resting against the banister while Sherlock invaded his mouth. It wasn't entirely unpleasant.

It was incredibly enjoyable. At this point, he could think of nothing more than Sherlock's powerful tongue and how it took over his entire mouth. He began to fantastise- thinking about the other places the tongue could go. How he could sit back and focus on the feeling of it exploring his whole body, hot and wet.

Sherlock released John from the kiss and bit his bottom lip viciously as he did so, causing him to lean forward instinctively for more. John was breathless and his neck was beginning to sting from where Sherlock's hungry fingers had been clawing at it.

'How was that?' Sherlock panted, scanning John's face for clues.

'Well, some people prefer it a little bit gentler. That was quite full on….' John raised his eyebrows.

'But you enjoyed it.' Sherlock was matter-of-fact and blunt.

'Well, I'd probably say yes, it was quite enjoyable.'

'Your eyes are dilated and your pulse has raised significantly. You keep moving, touching or licking your lips so you're subconsciously re-living the kiss. I'd say I got that about right – even if the ever growing bulge in your trousers was a dead giveaway.'

'Well it just about matches yours.' John had to admit; he'd never wanted anyone more at any specific point in his life. It wasn't even a crush, or a need for love- it was lust. Pure, unsatisfied lust that grew and grew every time Sherlock mentioned sex.

'Teach me more, John.'

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him up the stairs to the apartment where he frantically scrambled to open the door, dropping the key and shaking with anticipation. The door was slammed and John pressed his back against it, arms leaning up to wrap around Sherlock's neck.

'For our lessons, you're going to be the dominative partner. You need to always make sure the other person knows you're in control.'

Sherlock placed his arms under John's legs and lifted, wrapping them around his waist and pinning him to the wall. 'Like this?'

'Oh god yes.' John grunted, resting his forehead against Sherlock's.

'You've been getting stronger I see, brother.'

John was instantly dropped to the ground, and Sherlock spun around to face Mycroft – sitting in the armchair.

'I-I…we can explain-' John dusted himself off and held his head in his hands.

'Oh John calm yourself down, I'm not interested in your sexual endeavours- there are much more pressing matters at hand. There's been a break in at Pentonville prison.'

'A break in? What, like a raid? Did anybody escape?' John paced worriedly whilst Sherlock sat on the chair opposite Mycroft- calm and composed. He only broke his focus to subtly slide a cushion from the chair on top of his lap.

'That's just the thing, Doctor Watson. We seem to have gained an inmate.'  
'Gained? So, they broke into prison…to be locked up?'

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. His eyes clouded over and the colour drained from his face as he read a message with an all too familiar signature.

_Roses are Red,_

_Violets are Blue,_

_I'm locked up in Pentonville_

_And thinking of you._

_-JM._


	5. Tease Me

'How did you do it?'

'How did I survive? Oh Sherlock, clever clever Sherlock thinking that he'd killed me. You didn't even check my pulse did you? You couldn't even be BOTHERED to check that the gun was actually loaded. I'm hurt, really, I am.'

Jim Moriarty was lying flat on his back on the interrogation table- with his legs hanging off opposite sides.

'But there was blood. I saw it, running from the back of your head.'

'OOOh yes of course, I completely forgot. It must've been real blood, I mean clearly, there's no such thing as blood packs or anything.'

Sherlock turned and faced the small, barred window- clearly disappointed with himself.

'Why a prison? Surely you could break into most of the places in England. So why are you keeping yourself in custody?' John crossed his arms and leant over Moriarty.

'Oh it's simple John…I felt guilty.' He winked and stretched his arms behind his head.

'NO YOU DON'T.' Sherlock spun around and gripped the collar of Moriarty's shirt and pulled them face to face. 'You aren't capable of feeling guilty. Any form of human emotion is alien to you and you have an ulterior motive. I just need to work it out.'

'Oh, somebody's a bit hypocriticaaaaal.' He practically sang the last word falsetto, with his face near pressed against Sherlock's. 'I thought you were dead, Sherlock Holmes. I thought I'd be happy after you 'died', I really did. But I was so bored. I didn't have brilliant Sherlock to keep me…stimulated.' A sly smirk spread across his face and his eyes looked across Sherlock's face with wonder. 'But you're here! You're back! And I'm truly, truly sorry for threatening to do what I did.'

'Threatening to do what?' John glanced at Sherlock, suddenly remembering that he'd never been told the whole story.

'Oh, you haven't told him? Oh, how sweet; isn't the ordinary little sidekick adorable.'

'I'm not a sidekick.' John mumbled to the ground.

'He's not ordinary.' Sherlock muttered almost simultaneously.

'I might call the guard now, you're both tiring me today. I have prison things to do.'

Sherlock charged forward and pinned him to the wall with his forearm. John felt a pang of jealousy and then arousal, first wanting to be in his position and then remembering how good it felt when he was.

'You don't seem to be coping with my return from the grave as well as I was with yours.' Moriarty contorted his face into a sarcastically sympathetic frown.

'You have something up your slimy little sleeve. I don't know what, but you do. And when I find out what it is- I promise, YOU will be the one who burns, Jim Moriarty.'

He swept out, leaving John and Moriarty together in the interrogation room.

'So. I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you're planning?'

'Oh John.' Moriarty pouted. 'How could I possibly do anything? I'm in prison.' He smirked, and was taken away by three armed security guards.

The next morning, Sherlock was sat at his desk- shuffling papers and staring blankly into the distance. He hadn't slept, his eyes were ringed and dark, and his hair was resting messily in various different directions. He looked- John noticed- like a teenage boy who'd spent too long revising for exams and had forgotten the basic needs of living in the process. The phone began to ring beside him, but Sherlock was motionless. John snuck across the room and reached towards it, snatching it and taking a triumphant breath to answer.

'Pass ME the phone if you don't mind, John.'

'Oh for god sake, can I just take this one call?' John could hear Lestrade on the other end of the phone, shouting frantically for anybody to answer.

'I thought you would've understood the situation by now. I am the genius detective, in charge and organised. You are the bumbling assistant, generally keeping me company and occasionally interjecting ideas which I will instantly ignore or contradict. Now give me the phone.'

'Of course. Sherlock Holmes, the celebrity detective, oh, and who's that other one again? If I see your name on the front of any more bloody newspapers….you need to try and keep us quiet for now, okay? The faked death didn't exactly help to hide us from the press…'

'and who on earth is going to know to hire us if we're sat, hiding in the dark? Oh John, it's simple. I have the look. My blue eyes make me seem innocent, and trustable, whereas my height and bone structure make me seem mature and down to business. My watch is always on my right arm, tightened to the third setting. It stays in the same place, but is loose enough to let people know that although time limits are a priority, I am not necessarily expected to keep to that time limit. The top two buttons on my shirt are undone; it gives people the impression that I'm not that serious about my work, and that I'm very carefree. You, John….Well you're just you.'

John grunted and looked his outfit over. Grey jumper, blue jeans. Smart brown shoes and a close-shaved face. He thought he looked incredibly down to business. Did Sherlock really notice nothing about him? He must have looked offended, because Sherlock certainly noticed that. 'Oh don't take it that way John. It's clear you take great pride in your personal appearance. You just don't think about it from a professional perspective.'

John forced a smile.

'I like the grey jumper. Honestly, it makes you seem…kind.' The closest thing to endearment was present on Sherlock's exhausted features.

_'Hello? Sherlock, can you hear me? Is that you?' _John jumped- he had forgotten that someone was on the other end of the phone. 'Hello, John Watson spea-'

Sherlock jabbed him in the ribs and caught the phone as he dropped it. 'Sherlock Holmes speaking. What do you want?'

_'It's about bloody time Sherlock. I understand you're a busy man and all, but this is very important and there really isn't much opportunity to waste time-'_

_'_Then why are you wasting time with this lecture when you could be telling me the reason you interrupted my incredibly productive Sunday morning?'

'Productive?!' John interjected. 'You've been re-arranging the same pile of paper for the past 40 minutes!' Sherlock raised his hand impatiently and John was silent.

'We've got a body. About 15/16 years old, female. Her mother realised she was missing and went looking for her; she was found about 9:30 this morning. This one was killed with a brick too- We think there could be a connection.'

'I'll be right down.' Sherlock hung up the call and John scoffed.

'-and so will John Watson, my faithful best friend, who always brings me my things and cleans up after me because I'm a lazy-'

'Stop moaning and get my bag.'

'Yes Sherlock.'

The crime scene itself was absolutely packed with civilians, bystanders, policemen, forensics teams and all sorts of people. It was nearly impossible to spot the body- which was unusual because it had been left in the most prominent and exposed place possible. A short woman with wild, blonde hair was bent over the body- occasionally taking photographs and scribbling things onto a notepad. Sgt Donavon and Lestrade were comforting a crying woman; presumably the young girl's mother.

Sherlock approached the blonde woman, who jumped slightly on hearing him speak.

'I'm not too sure that members of the public are generally allowed to photograph the dead, especially at the crime scene.'

I thought your observational skills were better than that, Mr Holmes. I am the crime scene photographer for this case.'

Sherlock laughed to himself and then at John, who had absolutely no idea of what was so funny or why Sherlock assumed he would understand. 'You underestimate me. Even an idiot could see the scruffy coat, overly bright, attention seeking lipstick, badly concealed notepad and messy, windswept hair. You've been at this crime scene from the start. I'd say…probably a training member of the press. And a failing one, at that.'

'You know Sherlock, I'd heard that you were very well educated, and a perfect Gentlemen. At least the education part was true. We'll work on the other part later.' She winked, and strutted into the distance – clearly not disheartened by his rude and impudent manner.

'Oh goodness John, all women these days can think about is sex. Isn't it hateful.'

_That's usually all I can think about when I'm talking to you. _John felt his cheeks darken as the thought crossed his mind, and he gulped visibly- trying not to meet Sherlock's gaze.

'Well, hateful for some maybe. Not so much for others.' Sherlock mumbled to himself.

'She just seemed lonely to me. You never know Sherlock…maybe you should talk to her more.' John desperately tried to play off his embarrassment; maybe if Sherlock actually experienced something with a woman then he'd prefer it, and John could try and move on with his life.

'If you paid any attention to me at all, John, you'd realise I have no interest in Giiiirls. I'd much rather spend my time practising my mind and insulting you in sarcastic battles of wit.'

'You'd rather spend your time with me than with a girl?' John raised his eyebrows.

'I never said that.'

'You implied it.'

'And you're trying to find hidden meanings in my words, John. I can read you like a book.' Their faces were practically millimetres apart and everything about the fantastic man before him imposed John's senses. Sherlock didn't have a presence, he WAS the presence. When talking to him, there was nobody else. He had the scent of one thousand years' knowledge and wit which drew you in and made you want to disappear forever into his mind and share the wonderful thoughts and emotions – or lack thereof- that existed in his ideal little world. The air between them was almost too thick to breathe, and John felt himself being engulfed into Sherlock's deep sapphire eyes. He knew the feeling all too well; and he refused to believe that said feeling existed between him and his Colleague.

Friend.

Almost Lover.

Almost.

He'd always been confused by the word 'lover.' Because usually, all being lovers involved was sex and nothing else. No affection, no care and certainly no actual 'love.' So what could happen if love was actually introduced in that situation?

_Nothing good._ John decided to put aside his surfacing emotions, and did all he could to push away the man who was fast becoming the most important part of his life.

'Well, keep her in mind. She's pretty…and she seems like a nice person.'

Sherlock whipped his head away and broke any connection that there had previously been- if any. Maybe John had imagined it all.

'It appears I have much to teach you. What appears to you as 'pretty' may appear to another type of person as something entirely different. An intelligent person. Someone like me. Take her coat, for instance. Yes, it's a nice shape, suits her well, but looking at the quality of the buttons I'd say that she's definitely on some form of benefits. Looking at the incredible bags underneath her eyes, I'd say child benefits, which is definitely a no go. A lot of cat hair too, which indicates that she might possibly have underlying companionship issues. Her teeth immediately show me a poor sense of personal hygiene, and don't even get me started on her hair.'

The reporter was stood behind Sherlock the entire time, looking increasingly more upset as his analysis continued. When he had finished, she wiped away a tear and brushed any visible cat hair from her clothing. She vanished surprisingly quickly after that.

_So much for that escape plan. _John sighed.

'Freak, I need to give you the brief.' Donavon called them both over.

'Ugh' Sherlock spat to the side.

'Be nice.'

'There's no point in being nice to people you dislike. Much easier to make them hate you and be done with it.'

'Well, you seem to have a knack for that.'

'The girl's name was Alicia Simmons. Average student, no criminal record, killed by a blow to the back of the head. Her mother is Mary Simmons. She was slightly hysterical, but seems to have calmed down. There's nothing much else. We've examined the body, we're just waiting on the undertakers to take her away.'

Sherlock was looking into the distance with a glassy stare; John could tell that he took in none of what was just said to him.

'I'll have a look at her.'

'Oi, did you hear nothing I just said? We've already seen her.'

'You've seen her. You didn't observe. Was she happy at home?' He stepped over the body and crouched, pulling John down next to him.

'Her mother said they had a very close relationship. She always told her if she was scared, or upset.'

'The marks around the wrist; she was grabbed. There was clearly a struggle beforehand, so she would've seen the attacker. The attacker wouldn't have needed to be seen; it was perfectly easy to stay hidden and attack, so they had a motive to kill her, and wanted her to suffer. There are cuts on her hip; self inflicted, NOT something you see often on a happy teenager. Her jumper is on backwards and her hair is coarse and dry, like something has been poured onto it. I suspect that she was drunk.'

Donavon was stammering in disbelief, glancing around her at her colleagues for some backup.

'Y-yeah. Obvious.' John stuttered.

Sherlock strode over to the crying woman, standing above her imposingly.

'Tell me; is your daughter regularly drunk?'

'Sherlock, the poor girl's just been murdered for god sake.' John murmured.

'Oh, I apologise. Mrs Simmons, WAS your daughter regularly drunk?'

'No, of course not. She's 15 for goodness sake! She wouldn't dream of it. She was always so perfectly behaved, so perfect…' She collapsed into tears once more and Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently.

'Was she doing well at school?'

'Oh yes, a straight A student. She was always making me proud. Never getting into trouble, always quiet around her friends. She was my sweet little girl.'

'Did she get into fights a lot? Was there somebody who would want to hurt her?'

'Never. As I said, she was very quiet. Not the most popular of girls, but she wasn't lonely. She spent her evenings having sleepovers with her friends; I didn't see her often in the evenings. I won't see her at all now... 'She was staring dreamily into the distance, and John glanced at Sherlock concernedly.

'Are you done yet? I don't think we need you traumatising the witness any more than she already is.' Anderson appeared in John's peripheral vision, with his arms crossed.

'And I'm sure referring to her simply as 'The Witness' instead of a living, breathing person is really going to help matters.' John shook his head in disgust.

'There's no need for this, we've already questioned the witness and we've given you the evidence we've got. It's up to you to work your little detective magic and piece the clues together for us, so if you'd just get going and-'

'But she's lying?'

Any noise in their immediate surroundings ceased and Sherlock's mouth dropped open slightly, staring at John with a mixture of wonder and pride.

'I'm impressed, John.'

John's heart flipped. He'd heard those words before- and they'd meant something incredibly good.

'She IS lying, yes, but not to us directly. She's lying to herself, I think. Trying to convince herself that she had the perfect daughter and the perfect life, when really…' He turned to face the girl's mother, after glancing at the case notes and taking in her full name. 'Think for a moment Mary. Ignore all the little fantasies your mind has created. Your daughter was popular, loud, misbehaved. She was often out all weekend without explanation-'

Mary had started to become hysterical. 'She was at her friends, she told me!'

'And you immediately believed her, but why? You seem like an intelligent woman, what on earth would possibly force you to gloss over every bad moment in your daughter's life? Did you ever at any point check your daughter's reports? Ask if she got any detentions?'

'No, no, she told me her grades, she told me if she got a detention-'

'Who else lives in your household with you?'

'Just me, and my h-husband…'

'Is your husband ever drunk at all? Or maybe violent. No, he wouldn't be violent towards you, it would show...'

'That's enough, Sherlock.' John reached towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder; he'd seen Sherlock lose all sense of empathy before but this was just frightening.

'She's very clearly using her daughter to make up for something else that went wrong in her life. She's covering something up but I don't think she knows it...'

An incredibly large, bald man appeared from a group of policemen, storming over to Mary- who was almost curled into herself from grief. He had a thick scar leading from one corner of his mouth to just below his ear.

'Mary? Is this man upsetting you?'

'Oh George, thank god you're here.'

Sherlock stepped towards him, hand outstretched. 'Oh, this is very interesting. Where did you get that scar?'

'It's okay sweetheart, I'm here now…'

'Or you could ignore the detective in charge of discovering who murdered your daughter, yes, brilliant idea.'

'I'm sorry? You insult my wife and our family, and then don't bother to apologise, you don't introduce yourself and now you're asking about a very personal issue that I have?'

'Yes, of course.'

The large bald man- who John assumed was called George- rolled his tongue across his teeth for a few seconds before grunting and responding. 'I cut myself shaving a few weeks ago.'

'I'm a detective. I'm not sure whether to be insulted by your little faith in my intelligence, or entertained by the lack of any that you possess. That cut is much too deep to have been done by a razor blade, and it's clearly a scar that's many years old. I don't know any man who shaves directly from his mouth. Now I know YOU'RE lying to me, and I need to find out why.'

'I'm telling you nothing'

'Then you clearly don't want to find the person who murdered your daughter.' John interrupted, holding his head high with a sense of personal triumph.

'John, let me handle this.' Sherlock placed his hand on John's upper arm and held him back, defensive.

'No, Sherlock- this isn't right. If you really wanted to find out who hurt your daughter, you would be telling us every bit of information we needed to know. So either you don't care about your daughter at all, or you know something about this case that you don't want us to.'

Five minutes later, John was sat in the crime scene ambulance nursing a bleeding nose with Sherlock sat by his side.

'I told you to let me handle it.'

'He's been locked up overnight for assault. That's bought us more time for interrogation. No need to thank me.'

'How's your nose?'

'A bit stiff, but I don't think it's broken. I was a soldier once- I can deal with it.'

You couldn't have cut the silence with glass.

'You said I impressed you again.' John turned to Sherlock, having cleared the rest of the blood from his face.

'How very observant of you.' Sherlock replied sardonically.

'Was it enough? I mean, I've impressed you before and- well I don't really know how- I suppose what I'm trying to say is-'

'You're wondering if I'm planning on having sex with you tonight.' Sherlock was facing the closed door of the ambulance and seemed completely calm- whereas thoughts were rushing around in John's head (and unsurprisingly, pants) like a supernova. 'I don't think about anything or anyone sexually or romantically during a case. It distracts me. If you impress me and the case is completed, chances are I'll be so drastically aroused that I'll have to refrain myself from having you there and then in the taxi drive home. But whilst the case is still in investigation, I'm afraid I can't let my mind stray. I should have informed you of this earlier, I'm sorry.'

The fact that he was so matter-of-fact about it somehow turned John on even more. Just the thought of Sherlock Holmes being 'drastically aroused' was enough to make John the same, and he adjusted himself on the ambulance bed to compensate for the room that his blatantly enlarging cock was taking up in his jeans. 'Well, surely if you get aroused from my impressing you either way-what are you planning on doing when that happens during a case?'

'I have absolutely no idea. I'll think of something. But for now, I'll have to relieve my frustration myself.'

He turned to John and pushed him back against the wall of the ambulance- so he was still sitting on the bed, but his back had something to rest against. Their mouths impacted so suddenly that their teeth collided, and John felt Sherlock's desperate groan rock his entire body. His hips bucked as a cold, slender hand crept its way into his underwear and instantly began stroking up and down his now solid member, shivering with the unfamiliar sensation of dominant, male attention. Sherlock's other hand had gripped onto the front of his jumper, holding him back and preventing him from moving into Sherlock's embrace further. It was clear that he was to have no control over this encounter- and as Sherlock's thumb brushed across the tip of his dick he wondered how this man had never been with another sexual partner before. Sherlock's legs were straddling his and John's arms hung limp at his sides, yearning to touch every inch of Sherlock's powerful body but knowing that it wasn't his place. Almost as quickly as it had entered, Sherlock's hand withdrew from his pants and followed the length of John's body until it reached his jaw line for one final, tender caress- before Sherlock pulled away viciously, wiped his mouth, yanked open the ambulance door and disappeared from sight; leaving John more frustrated, confused and aroused than when the entire situation began.


	6. Wait For Me

Ten minutes later, after composing himself and making sure his nose was completely well again, John Watson left the ambulance and barely walked a few feet until the same brilliant-blonde reporter stopped him in his tracks.

' Lisa Thomas, London Daily. Have you got any leads on who may have possibly murdered Alicia Simmons?'

John shifted; startled and nervous. He wasn't used to talking to these people without Sherlock telling him what not to say. 'Well, we've only just started the case, and-'

'But you're supposed to be the smartest detective team in England, do you not have any idea?'

'Bear in mind that we haven't even had the forensics team examine the crime scene yet-' She was getting uncomfortably close and John felt beats of sweat running down his neck.

'Would you say Sherlock is a fair man to work for?'

**'John, bring me my evidence cup.'** He spotted Sherlock in the distance, bent over a crumbled brick on some plastic sheeting.

'You have an evidence cup?!'

'I put it in your coat pocket before we left.'

John reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, plastic cup with a while lid. _Ok, so he has an evidence cup._ He caught himself mumbling and noticed Lisa scribbling frantically on her notepad. 'If you'll excuse me.' He jogged lightly towards Sherlock, making sure she was as far behind him as he could allow without seeming rude.

'What are you doing?' Sherlock was scraping parts of the brick into the cup, carefully and gently.

'I'm collecting samples of the brick for analysis.'

'Aren't you going to wait for the forensics team?'

'Aren't you going to keep this a secret?' Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

'Keep what a secret?' Lisa squatted between them, hungry for information. Sherlock carried on as if she wasn't there.

'John, why is this lady following me around?'

'Because that's her job?'

She pushed between them and leant forward on her knees, obscuring Sherlock's view. 'Is this the murder weapon?'

Sherlock sat up and glanced at John, then Lisa, then back at John. 'How do I get her to leave?'

'You ask her nicely.'

'Nice idea John, but that doesn't work with members of the press.'

'It's ok. I get the hint. You were never one for subtlety, Mr Holmes.' She picked herself up, brushed herself off and stormed away with her head held high.

'Let's get a sample to Molly. She can help with some of the equipment I'll need to test this.' Sherlock stood and stared into the distance, one eyebrow furrowing in concentration. He shook his head once or twice, and John began to feel slightly concerned.

'Sherlock? Are you still with us?'

'Oh yes, sorry. I could've sworn that was- never mind. '

It had begun to get dark so they decided to call it a day. The taxi drive home was incredibly awkward- and it was becoming a regular occurrence.

'Sherlock, about earlier, in the ambulance.'

'I don't want to discuss it if you don't mind John.'

'Well, I do mind actually. You practically sexually assault me and then don't want to mention it on the way home? That's not fair.'

'If it was sexual assault, you wouldn't have enjoyed it so much. Neither would I have. I'd rather not discuss it because thinking back to it would probably turn me on in a rather inconvenient fashion, so if you don't mind.'

'You can't keep torturing yourself like this.'

'You're right John, I can't. I've been so sexually pent up for so long that just the mere idea of releasing all of that frustration is enough to bring me near peak. However, the more focused I am on this case, the faster I can solve it. Trust me John, once this case is over- you're going to forget what it was ever like to walk comfortably. I can promise you that.' He darted his tongue out and wet his bottom lip; making it shiny, full and inviting. John imagined that lip dragging on the underside of his erection, warm and alleviating. Sherlock was clearly imagining a similar thing because his fists clenched and so did his jaw; tightening his cheekbones and whitening his knuckles. The car pulled up to 221B and John evacuated instantly, leaning his head against the door and taking deep breaths. 'I'm going for a shower, I'll see you in a bit.'

John examined the length of his cock in his pale hand. It moved up and down slowly, easing it into a full hardness. He'd always had a kink for getting off in the shower, but this time there wasn't enough time to set the water running. He moaned lightly when he got himself up, rubbing the opening of his cock gently and closing his eyes at the contact. Excited hands stroked along it as he stepped to the mirror in the bathroom, biting his lip as he saw his reflection. It was impossible to have any sort of sexual encounter and still look attractive, and he started to worry what Sherlock would think about the expressions he made when he moaned. _I'll be facing away from Sherlock when he fucks me anyway. _The thought crossed John's mind and he hissed the beginnings of the faultless male's name. 'Sh-sher' he grunted and shut himself up, remembering that the walls of the bathroom weren't soundproof. His head leaned back, his mouth gently hanging open. His hand quickened along his cock, pumping it roughly as moans fell from his lips. _If this case isn't resolved quickly I think I might actually explode. _He sighed and bucked his hips up, teeth grasping a pouting bottom lip as he rolled his hand up and over the head of his dick, causing it to twitch enticingly in his grip. God, it felt so great, he really needed this... He needed this more than he had thought.

He felt his balls tightening and it was like a month's worth of worry and pent up sexual fury was released at once. He pressed the front of his body against the mirror, wincing as the freezing glass touched his clammy, hot skin. He let out one final groan and was unable to prevent 'Sh-Sherlock' hissing from his gritted teeth. His grunt was matched with a lower, yet equally powerful one from the other side of the bathroom door, and he hurriedly wiped down the steamed up mirror. When he re-entered the living room, Sherlock was wrapped in a sheet and sat calmly on the sofa.

'Goodnight John.'

'It's 8pm.'

'You're exhausted. I can tell by looking at you.'

'You're right. Goodnight.'

The next morning, John awoke from another incredibly vivid dream involving his closest friend. It was one from a series of recurring dreams, and John had learned not to question his feelings for the extraordinary man anymore because he knew nothing would come of it. He was to teach Sherlock how to treat someone right sexually, and they would satisfy each other. That was the deal.

Of course, it would help if they could actually carry out that agreement at one point in the next year or so.

They were disturbed within the first hour of consciousness by Lestrade calling at the door with a newspaper in hand.

'The London Daily. This newspaper has information about the murder that nobody outside of the police department could possibly know. Would you care to explain this to me?' He seemed absolutely furious, and looked towards Sherlock accusingly.

'I assure you Lestrade, we told nothing to the press.'

'Lisa Thomas is the woman who wrote the article. Mean anything to you?'

John swore under his breath. 'She was a reporter poking around on the day of the crime scene. I don't understand how she'd get so much detail though. Do you want us to give her a check?'

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the desk in the distance. As he read the message, John could've sworn the detective's eyes changed colour. _Not necessarily colour- _he decided_- more 'essence'. _

They went from the eyes of an excited investigator anxious for his next case to a confused child, lost from any help or idea of what to do next. His jaw tightened and he placed his phone slowly back onto the desk. 'John, go and speak to Ms Thomas. I have some business to attend to.'

John watched him exit; his limbs stiff and frightened. He walked gingerly to the phone on the desk, and his stomach dropped once more as he read the message.

_Bodies are pale,_

_As white as the snow._

_Boring old Sherlock;_

_You're getting slow._

_-JM_


	7. Distract Me

John knocked sharply three times on the small, chipped door of the old apartment block. The wallpaper in the corridor was peeling and greyed, and gave the impression of a sad lost place with no hope or happiness. He'd felt a similar feeling a few months previous, when sitting on his own in 221B Baker Street, wondering why his best friend had left him. Lisa Thomas opened the door dressed in a nightgown with her hair pulled messily into a bun. She had dark circles under her eyes and was clutching a chipped mug of coffee.

'I thought you weren't going to speak to me about the case.'

'I wasn't, but then you published a story anyway.'

'I'm sorry, I have a lot of work to catch up on.' She began to close the door, but John stuck his foot in the way.

'I can hear Jeremy Kyle on the TV in the other room. The microwave is on too. Very hard at work it seems. Fancy sticking the kettle on? It's been a long journey.' He walked into the tiny, dark apartment and sat on the mottled armchair in the corner. It was damp and stained- the entire room made him feel uncomfortable and he yearned for the sanitary kitchen and the speckless living room of home that Sherlock cared for so much.

'Why can't you leave well enough alone? I haven't done any wrong; I'm just telling the world the facts – that's what a reporter does.' She passed him a watery cup of tea in a dirty mug, and he decided to very subtly edge the cup behind the chair when she wasn't looking.

'It's not whether people know about the case or not. It's how you know this information.'

'I listened in on some police reports. It really wasn't that difficult.'

_'Miss Simmons, who was on her way back from a party in Brixton, was attacked on her journey at around 1am on Sunday morning. The cause of death was a blow to the back of the head by a brick. Miss Simmons' family had recently had an explosive row which left them torn apart; so her family have not been ruled out as suspects. _We weren't even aware that she had been at a party the night before. Her family mentioned nothing about a row to us; in fact, they seemed to be quite happy from what we were told. How do you know all of this?'

'I have my sources.' She sat on the arm of the chair, and John noticed the hem of her nightgown sliding up her leg slightly. 'Now if you don't mind- I'd rather be left alone. Unless there is anything else you needed?' She rested her hand on his knee.

'I could get you arrested for withholding evidence you know.' He gulped and focused on a crack on the ceiling- distracting himself from the ticking nails dragging along his thigh.

'Oh no, you don't really want to do that do you?' She pursed her lips and attempted to look innocent and sweet. John just noticed that she looked sad. 'Can't we think of a way to ignore this whole silly business?' She dragged her hand lightly across his crotch and undid the button on the top of his jeans. He exhaled, unsure of how he felt about the situation. She was attractive- he could see that- but the prospect of this sneaky woman tossing him off purely to protect her own reputation did nothing for him at all. He opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by hers; lips working viciously against his which were fighting to stay closed. She straddled his hips on the armchair and he attempted to push her off- however in the struggle all his hands seemed to do was grope her boobs further. There was a sharp knock on the door and then a click as it was opened.

'I need to see your phone Miss Thomas, it's extremely important. Also, I must ask you to take your hands off my doctor.'

She threw herself off and stormed towards Sherlock, who was already flicking through her phone. 'Excuse me. I don't think it's proper manners to invite yourself into a lady's home and search her personal belongings.'  
'I also don't think it's polite to force a man into sexual contact he clearly doesn't want, but you seem to have that covered already.'

John felt violated and strange- like a child who'd expected a lollipop but had received an empty stick. A rotten empty stick. Covered in acid.

'Nothing, damn.' Sherlock threw the phone carelessly onto the table and picked a stunned John up from the chair, dragging him out the door.

'Is that it then? You're going to search my phone and then leave me?'

'Oh on the contrary. Lestrade and some others from the force will be over soon to arrest you for withholding evidence. Good day.'

'Where did you go?'

John realised that his shirt still had three buttons undone, and suddenly felt very exposed. Sherlock's legs were hopping up and down in the back of the taxi and he was restless.

'I had to go and visit Pentonville again. I got another text from Moriarty.'

'Anything interesting?'

'Only frustrating. I asked the guards and each one said that he had all of his belongings confiscated when he turned himself in. He doesn't own a phone.'

'But…he texted you?'

'Or someone impersonating him.'

'Did you have him searched? Maybe he snuck a phone in.'

'Oh, he volunteered for it.'

'But you do think it's him?'

Sherlock glanced at John as if he was an idiot. If he wasn't used to it, he probably would've been offended. However he just sighed and let the man explain his thoughts.

'Of course it's him. It might not be directly, but he definitely has some form of connection with the person. The initials at the end and the way he writes- the rhymes. No random impersonator would be able to match that so accurately; he must have had some contact with them. In one text he called me boring; only Moriarty would know the association with me and that word.'

'Maybe the reporter is connected? That'll be why she knows all those facts.'

'Exactly why I asked for her to be called in for questioning.'

'Let's hope Lestrade isn't subjected to the same treatment that I was.'

Sherlock exhaled audibly through his nostrils and rolled his tongue around in his mouth before speaking. 'About that. We need to make some rules.'

Rules, yes, exactly. That was what he'd planned to do at the start- but he got…distracted.

'First things first. We know that I won't be partaking in any sexual activities when on a case. Also, for the period of my learning- you will only be working with me.'

'You mean I can't have sex with anybody other than you?'

'Intercourse, foreplay- anything under the sexual umbrella.'

This didn't bother John. Recently there wasn't really anybody he'd wanted to have sex with other than Sherlock- however he wasn't about to let him know that.

'That's completely unfair- first you say I'm not allowed to do anything with you whilst we're on a case and now I'm not allowed sex with anybody else?'

'John, when I first experience things sexually I will expect the best level of satisfaction from you. I will only be happy with my efforts if you are enjoying yourself, and the chances of that are heightened if you've been frustrated for a long time. Understand?'

'I understand, I guess. Does this mean-?'

'STOP THE CAR.'

The breaks were slammed and Sherlock disappeared from sight, darting down a nearby alleyway. John passed some change over and nodded apologetically to the driver, then followed without hesitation. He turned the corner and Sherlock had his head on his arm, leaning against the wall. As John approached, he hit the wall with his other hand and shouted. Nothing in particular, just a strangled, pained noise that caused John to pause and take a step back.

'Sherlock? What-'

'I saw her, again. This is the THIRD time I've seen her John, she was right there.'

'Who? I can't help you if I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Alicia Simmons. She walked right down the road and into this alleyway, I swear it. I saw her walking around on the day of the murder too, and again outside Pentonville.'

John glanced around but there was no-one else in sight. He hadn't seen her at the murder site either- unless you counted her dead body. He zipped up his jacket; the wind was biting cold and the winter season meant that it was already dark, even though it was about 4pm. 'Maybe we should just get you home. It's cold and I don't think you've eaten or slept in days.'

'You don't believe me, do you John? I swear it, I saw her. I wouldn't mistake something like that, I really wouldn't.' He had gripped John's shoulders and was scanning his face rapidly with his eyes, which looked hurt and scared. The last time he'd seen the man so distressed was when he thought he spotted the enormous hound up near Baskerville- however this time was different. In Baskerville, the idea of a mutated hound was at least feasible. The idea that he could be seeing the body of a dead girl wandering the streets of London was enough to strike genuine terror into his expression. 'I'm so sure I saw her. We need to tell somebody. Lestrade- maybe he could help. Did you see her John? When you came round here?'

'I didn't see anybody Sherlock. I'm sorry-' Sherlock's knees crumbled and he began to collapse, shaking violently. John immediately caught him on his way down, holding one hand under his head for support.

'My mind is betraying me. The one thing I have been sure of my entire life and it's showing me things that aren't there. But she WAS there, she was practically tangible and I-' he slid the palm of his hands behind John's ears and kissed him viciously. 'Distract me John, and quickly. I can't be thinking about this. I don't care about the rules anymore, just distract me.' He pulled him into another kiss, and John's entire body ached to lean in for more- but he forced himself to resist.

'Sherlock, you can't do this. If you're only kissing me to get your mind off other things then I can't allow you to do that, I'm sorry but-'

'John there has been nothing else on my mind other than kissing you these past few weeks-now if you don't mind, I have thought of a reasonable excuse to act on those desires.' He moved from John's lap to his knees, and unzipped his jacket.

'If you're sure, I don't want you doing anything that you'll regret.' John's nose was resting against Sherlock's, and their breath was making white mist in the very faint glow of the street light around the alley corner.

'It's what I want. Honestly- I need something to take my mind off everything that has happened today, and you're the perfect distraction.' Sherlock stood and extended his hand to John, who took it gingerly. Before he could ask what was happening, he had been pushed against the alley wall and has having his neck gently caressed and licked by Sherlock Holmes. His erection appeared through his trousers at a worrying rate, and after feeling it pressing through to his thigh, Sherlock was very aware of it too.

'Tell me what you want me to do, John.' He licked and kissed under John's earlobe, his breath hot on the trembling man's neck.

'I don't want you to do anything you don't want to.'

'I want to learn, I'll do whatever it takes.' John's shoulder jerked as Sherlock tugged down the collar of his shirt and began planting soft, gentle kisses along his collarbone.

'You've been doing some research.'

'I watched some videos. I didn't want to embarrass myself on my first try.' He dropped to his knees and John gasped in anticipation, ashamed of letting his excitement show through so easily.

'Sherlock, it's the middle of the afternoon and we're in an alleyway. Wouldn't you prefer to get home first and-'

'We're in the moment. You're aroused. I know every odd and end of this town and I promise, we won't be discovered.' His fingers traced under the rim of John's waistline and he unbuckled the heavy belt- tugging open the button on the front of John's jeans without a moment's hesitation. John tilted his head back and bit his lip, short jagged breaths reminding him that he was alive and awake.

'Tell me if I do anything wrong. I only aim to please.' Sherlock ran his hand over the outline of John's cock through his underwear, following the length all the way to the tip before tugging down the waistband and grasping it in cold hands. John began to swear under his breath but was cut off as he suddenly felt intense warmth replacing the hard coldness of Sherlock's fingers. He glanced down and gazed at his cock, which was being tongued professionally by a man who he'd once called his best friend. Sherlock sucked the tip of his erection into the wet heat of his mouth, his tongue flicking over the tip and teasing the rim of his head gently. Using his hands to steady John's hips, Sherlock moved his mouth to press kisses along the shaft of John's cock all the way down to his balls; Taking each one in his mouth and stroking them with his tongue before licking a wet stripe over the vein on the underside of John's cock until he once again encased the head of the erection in his lips.

John couldn't hold back anymore- he began to moan and subconsciously move his hips so that he was further in Sherlock's mouth.

'Anything I can do to improve?' Sherlock's face was sweaty and pale, and his hair was messy where John had entangled his fingers into it.

'A-a bit wetter, if you can. It's good though, really, it's…' he trailed off. His entire body felt fatigued and weak, but in a gloriously pleasant way. Sherlock spat on his hand and began to work John's cock once more, following every stroke with his mouth. Moving his head down, Sherlock concentrated on taking more and more into his mouth, playing with the heavy weight of John's cock on his tongue. He moved his head forward as he felt John's hands entangle in his hair and pull him closer- until John hit the back of his throat. John was aware of himself muttering and groaning, but even he wasn't aware what on earth he was saying at that time. The pleasure was otherworldly, and his legs were beginning to give out underneath him.

'S-sherlock, I'm going to…oh fuck. I'm going-'

'Would you prefer me to swallow? What would please you more?'

'Swa-' he gulped and threw his head back, feeling his entire body tense up as a wave of ecstasy washed over him. Sherlock's mouth stayed round his cock the entire time he came, and he felt a faint tingling as Sherlock's tongue cleaned up the mess he had caused. He slid down the wall to the floor and regained his breath, trembling from the aftershocks of the orgasm.

'How was I?'

'Just…give me a minute. Please.'

'That doesn't sound very promising.'

In John's mind, he couldn't believe that that had been Sherlock's first blow job. It was of almost professional standard, and John's body could barely function for the next few minutes. He began to adjust himself while Sherlock walked to the other end of the alley and phoned for yet another taxi. Once he'd put the phone down, John regained the use of his limbs and stood by his side, facing the floor.

'If you must know, I'm quite confident that you just gave me the best blowjob I've ever received.'

'Good.'

'If you want, I can brief you through some tips to help you perfect it for next time. Maybe I can even demonstrate-'

'Back to work tomorrow.'

'Oh, so we're just…you're just going to…'

'Back to work.'


	8. Believe Me

The next morning, John awoke feeling unsatisfied. He'd had what he would happily call the best evening of his life with Sherlock the night before; however he couldn't help wanting more. The fact that Sherlock had passed the entire encounter off as practically nothing also hurt him slightly; however any sexual contact was better than no sexual contact. He stretched his arms out and moaned with the relief of his bones clicking- stopping only when his hand grasped the warm mess of hair from the man perched by the side of his bed, watching him sleep.

'Can I help you?'

'I needed to observe something. Just to put my mind at rest.' Sherlock jumped up and tightened his dressing gown, nodding at a bewildered John- who was still in his underwear. John gulped and folded his arms, attempting and failing to hide how exposed he felt. He decided to follow Sherlock into the living room and confront him about the night before; he refused to just continue as if things were normal because he'd _felt _something last night. And that something wasn't just a euphoric wave of orgasmic pleasure.

'Sherlock, about last night.'

'Oh hello John dear, sorry to disturb you. I was just coming to collect the rent and Sherlock asked if I wanted to stay for a cup of tea!' Mrs Hudson was sat in his armchair and he instantly threw Sherlock a vicious dirty look. Under normal circumstances he would've never asked anyone if they wanted to stay for a cup of tea. John knew it was so he couldn't discuss what had happened the previous evening. He darted back into his room and changed into some decent clothes- a red button-up cardigan and black jeans- before convincing himself to ask Sherlock what would happen next with the case.

'Lestrade has the reporter confined at Pentonville. She's not in a very high security section but I can't really imagine her making a daring escape any time soon. We will leave in a few minutes to interrogate her, and ask if she knows anything about Jim Moriarty.'

'Why would Moriarty be involved?'

Sherlock slowed to a halt as he was leaving and turned to face John, disappointment clear on his face. 'Why wouldn't Moriarty be involved?'

'He turned himself in. He has no contact with the outside world, no technology and he hasn't even attempted to break out. Just this once, can we give the man the benefit of the doubt?'

'I've mentioned before John- he's not a man. He gets bored too easily just to turn himself in, I promise.' The glint in Sherlock's eyes scared John; he'd never seen Sherlock so utterly focused or dedicated on an idea.

He also couldn't help noticing how Sherlock had turned the complete opposite direction to where John was sitting in the taxi. He was silent the entire journey, and didn't even try to acknowledge his presence.

'I told you, I have my sources and they did some investigating on the same day you did. That's all I can say.'

'I don't think you understand Miss Thomas- you are currently under police interrogation.' Sherlock was close to banging his head on the table after 50 minutes of trying to get a response out of the stubborn reporter.

'You're not the police though, are you? You can't do anything to me; so why should I help you?'

'Because we could speak to higher authorities and have you arrested.' John interrupted before Sherlock lost his temper- he'd stepped away and had his forehead pressed against the glass window at the end of the interrogation room.

'You still wouldn't have the information you wanted, what would be the point of that?' She grinned at John, who was grinding his teeth together impatiently.

'Personal satisfaction.'

'J-John, come over here, quickly!' Sherlock was fumbling to open the window and his hands were visibly shaking. 'She's outside John, come and look- please.' He almost spat the word 'please', it was clear he was distressed because he'd never asked politely for something in his life. He'd forced open the window just as John joined him, and leant almost all the way out- screaming frantically and making his voice crack. 'You, down there. Come back here, I SAID COME BACK. MISS SIMMONS, COME BACK HERE- I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOU.'

_Oh shit, not again._ John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently encouraged him to come inside. 'Sherlock, there's nobody there. I promise. Listen to me- you're starting to worry people. You're worrying me.'

On those last words, Sherlock retreated inside. He pulled John close until his head was resting on the shorter man's shoulder, and began to do something that broke every remaining part of sanity in John's mind at the time. He began to cry. Slow, soft sniffs and gasps of breath echoed through John's ears and he instinctively stroked Sherlock's hair, muttering comforting words to the scraps of his best friend that remained.

'Well, isn't this touching.' Lisa snarled from the opposite end of the table.

'If you even dare saying anything else-' John began, before being cut off by the sudden jolt of vibration from Sherlock's shirt pocket. He'd been here all too often- Sherlock would read the text, the colour would drain from his face and they'd visit Jim Moriarty once more at Pentonville prison.

This time was different. Sherlock read the text, and his face flushed red with fury. He slammed his phone down on the table and threw open the interrogation room door, spitting the word 'impossible.' He charged down the prison corridor, half-knocking a bewildered Lestrade off his feet and kicking over a wooden chair carelessly. John carefully manoeuvred himself through the wave of destruction that was filling the prison, until he witnessed Sherlock clubbing the large button that released cell 13A.

'Ah Sherlock, this is a pleasant surprise-'

'**How are you doing it?!' **Sherlock had Moriarty up against the wall of his cell by his throat, gasping for air.

'I- I don't know what you're talking about-' he began to giggle, but collapsed into a fit of coughing instead.

'**This was your doing, I KNOW it. TELL ME HOW.' **

'I've been in prison, I haven't-' Sherlock punched him viciously in the jaw, causing him to bite his tongue. Blood began to drip slowly from the corners of his mouth, and shone on his teeth when he grinned.

'Sherlock, you need to stop!' A lump formed in John's throat as he watched the horror unfold- Sherlock screaming 'TELL ME' and striking Moriarty two or three more times. His entire face was swelling up and had taken on a multitude of colours, reds and blacks and blues. Lestrade poked his head round the door and swore in disbelief, calling behind him for security backup.

'Sherlock please listen to me, you can get help for this but you need to stop hurting him.' John stepped forward with his arm outstretched and Lestrade called him back. He placed the palm of his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Moriarty was released; sliding to the ground in a shuddering pile of bruised flesh and blood. Sherlock turned slowly to face John, and John whimpered under his breath. The small flecks of blood decorated Sherlock's delicate features, and made him seem paler than usual. His pupils were dilated and his eyes were bloodshot- he looked terrifying. The veins in his neck and forehead were visible and pulsing, and his knuckles were raw and shaking. John reached up to wipe his face clean but his arms were gripped by Lestrade and Donavon, and he was pulled away. Before he could open his mouth to protest, Sherlock was handcuffed and being lead to a cell.

John fell to his knees in despair and confusion. Once more, he was going to lose his best friend- and now he had to accept it- the man he loved. But this time, he wouldn't cope on his own. He was confused, and broken, and lost, and John could do absolutely nothing to help him. He buried his head in his hands and wept, refusing any form of comfort from Lestrade and other members of the team. Moriarty was being lead to the medical office, and Sherlock had already disappeared from sight. He hadn't even tried to resist arrest- he seemed to have no recollection of what had happened mere seconds before and was probably desperately searching for John to tell him what was wrong.

John didn't sleep that night, or the next two nights after that. Because Sherlock had attacked in an 'unprovoked' fit of fury, the police had no idea if he was safe to be around or not- so John wasn't allowed to visit. He had gone back to the interrogation cell later in the day to collect Sherlock's phone and prove that Moriarty had been sending him messages, but there was no text from Moriarty on the phone and hadn't been for a very long time.

That's what worried John the most- the fact that he didn't know whether Sherlock had been genuinely truthful. He was always completely honest with John; but then again…what if Sherlock had seen things which John couldn't- and therefore genuinely believed that he was being truthful?

After the third night of no sleep, John rubbed his eyes and went to see if Mrs Hudson had any post, or maybe an update about Sherlock's trial. He was greeted with only a newspaper which had been sent directly to his door, with a large headline printed in thick bold letters on the front cover.

**_'Genius Detective reaches breaking point? Sherlock Holmes under mental examination for fit of violent rage- Lisa Thomas.'_**


	9. Love Me

_As I waited in the Pentonville Prison interrogation room on a false charge, I bore witness to the breakdown of a popular media hero. Sherlock Holmes, so-called 'Master Detective' collapsed into the arms of his speculated partner John Watson on Monday afternoon, after calling out to a woman who Watson then testified did not exist. He then disappeared out of the blue into another cell, viciously assaulting another prisoner without reason and then blaming the attack on a text which, when investigated, turned out also not to exist. Has Sherlock gone round the bend? A psychiatrist has been called in to determine his mental state, but he will certainly be detained for an indefinite amount of time due to the nature of his attack. _

John threw the newspaper into the fireplace and rubbed his eyes wearily. It had been three days since he'd heard anything from Lestrade about Sherlock, or the Simmons' case. It was 11am, almost time for him to go for his daily visit to Pentonville to try and convince the authorities to let him see Sherlock. He was almost 90% certain he wouldn't be allowed in, but it was always worth a try. He needed to be sure that the most important man in his life was coping. He shaved his face carelessly and rinsed it with water, not really minding how he looked because he knew Sherlock wouldn't be allowed out anyway. He hoped that the guards would mention that he visited; just knowing someone was still there for him could have made all the difference.

'Ah, John!' Lestrade walked defiantly over to him as soon as he entered the reception of the prison. 'You'll be here to see Sherlock I presume? He's through this way.'

John nodded and began to follow, but paused after a few steps. 'What do you want? You never let me see Sherlock before. You must want something now.'

'He's refusing to speak to us. He hasn't said a word since we took him in. We figured that you'd be able to get a response out of him.'

The idea didn't best please John but at that point he was willing to do anything to be able to speak to Sherlock. He just needed reassurance. 'You need to promise that you won't listen in. I swear, I'll tell you anything of importance that he says, just trust me.'

'The room is secure and there's only one window at the door. It isn't soundproof, and we'll need a guard on the outside in case anything happens.'

'Do you seriously think that Sherlock could attack me in there?'

'At this point, nothing he could do would surprise me.' Lestrade lowered his head and gestured forward to a heavy, metal door with barred windows. John peered through the bars and saw Sherlock sitting on a mottled, wooden bench with his head leaning back and resting against stone walls. His face was doleful and hollow- pale, exhausted and vacant. John inhaled deeply and held his breath, clicking down the heavy handle and stepping inside. As soon as he closed the door, the back of a guard's head was visible in front of the bars, ensuring that Sherlock would not try to make a daring escape- not that John expected it. John sat on the bench opposite Sherlock, but he did not respond. Instead, Sherlock rested his hands on his knees and exhaled one deep, shaking breath. 'You don't believe me.'

His words cracked on the first word and his voice was thin and raspy.

'Sherlock-'

'Don't argue, John. No ordinary human being would ever believe me after the things that I've done.'

'You've said it yourself. I'm not ordinary.'

'No, you're not are you. You're right.'

'I was thinking about getting in touch with some lawyers, maybe pleading your case-'

'I'm in love with you.'

'However I think we'd need to examine-'

The fact that it was so abrupt and out of place was what made the butterflies in John's stomach slightly delayed. He choked on his sentence and blinked three or four times at Sherlock's focused, deadpan expression- which was now fixed directly on him. He lost the power of speech and stuttered awkwardly for a few seconds, unable to comprehend the situation that he'd just been thrust into.

'If you would like to leave, I understand.' Sherlock's face was weary once more, and defeated. 'When I was 16 years old, I asked out a girl who I believed I had a special connection with. She then decided to turn me down by telling me that no ordinary person would ever dream of falling in love with me- that they would need some special cause or mental deficiency. I've suppressed my feelings for you for so long, John. That day, the first day we met. When you saved my life that day I felt something then, but I convinced myself that nothing would grow of it. I realised a few months after faking my death that I would never be able to live without you- I could barely face that amount of time and I knew I wouldn't last much longer. The part about teaching me things that I hadn't experienced before was a lie, an excuse I invented once I realised I would no longer be satisfied with just observing you physically and exploring you mentally. I hid my feelings because I was confident that a man as incredible as you, with such fantastic morals and a brilliant, kind mind, would never be so foolish as to fall in love with someone like me. So, now that I have emptied my heart and soul to you, if you would just leave quietly then I can-'

John leapt across and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, silencing him. The air was chilling and the sudden contact of Sherlock's hand to the back of his neck caused goosebumps to ripple across his skin. They had kissed before, but this one was so fantastically different. It tasted of desperation and purity and trust, as if they were both melting into each other and the entire world around them dissolved into a blur of red and black heat. Sherlock sighed against his body and John inhaled, taking in the musky male scent that surrounded Sherlock like a shroud. It wasn't unpleasant in the slightest; it made him feel comforted and reassured. Sherlock broke away, and brought his hand to cradle John's jaw, his blue eyes wet and pained. 'I'm so sorry.'

'For what?'

'You're in love with me too. That's not safe for you, and it certainly isn't good for you.'

'It's something I can deal with.' He placed a tender, gentle kiss onto Sherlock's glistening lips, and rested their foreheads together. 'I'm going to get you out of here Sherlock, I promise. When I do, I will prove to you the depth of my love.'

'Now let's not get too sentimental John I've had enough emotion for one day. I need you to do something for me.' John smiled and pulled his head back, he had expected nothing less. 'I'll do whatever you need.'

'Go and see Molly, and ask her if she's located the origin of the brick yet. We may be able to trace the murder weapon back to the source.'

'But wouldn't it have been a spur-of-the-moment thing? Not many people plot bludgeoning young girls to death with bricks.'

'I analysed the fingerprints, too deep and old to have been recent- the brick was carried for probably about half an hour. The murder was planned.'

'I'll go now and see if I can track it down. Keep thinking of ways we can get you out of here.'

'Oh trust me, I've thought of many.'

'Keep safe.'

'John.'

'Hm?'

'I, well, that is to say, I-'

'I love you too.'

'So? Did he say anything about the attack? About Moriarty?' Lestrade pounced on John as soon as he left the room, and he silently prayed he'd used enough aftershave to mask Sherlock's scent on his skin and clothes.

'The murder weapon could be tracked down to one specific location, and I'm going to find that out.'

'He…he's still working on the case?'

'Lestrade, you should know by now that if you cut off Sherlock's arms and legs, he'd still somehow roll himself to a crime scene.'

Molly Hooper was fussing over beakers and vials scattered all over the desk upstairs at St Barts hospital. Sherlock clearly hadn't cleaned up the last time he'd been here, and Molly had been working tirelessly for days looking at the bags under her eyes.

'Is he ok? Sherlock I mean. I worry about him being on his own, especially in a place like that.' She smiled strenuously and passed John a cup of coffee, which she seemed to conjure magically from thin air as soon as he entered the room.

'He's fine, yes, coping as well as he can. He was wondering if you had anymore information on the origin of the murder weapon.'

'Oh yes, he left me a list of things he'd discovered from the analysis but I couldn't really make much out of it. Can you see what you can do?' She slid forward an old piece of lined paper which had several messy notes hastily scribbled onto it. The notes read;

_Calcium Ciliate, low iron and lime content_

_Red shade and tints of grey- narrows down to five varieties_

_Weinerberger AG?_

John chuckled in disbelief and Molly glanced at him questioningly.

'Weinerberger AG- an old type of brick used in factory building in the 18th century.'

It had been listed amongst 36 other types of bricks on Sherlock's website.

Over the past few days, John had spent hours on end reading through countless numbers of Sherlock's tiresome, monotonous website posts in a desperate attempt to have his presence in the room with him. The useless facts that he'd absorbed actually ended up being an enormous help. 'Molly, there's only one building in the whole of London that would use those bricks, and it's abandoned. The 18th century textile factory a few streets away. It's falling to pieces- that must be where the murderer collected their weapon. I just need to visit it and see-' His phone began to ring suddenly, cutting his thought process in two.

'Yes, hello?'

'Doctor Watson? This is Mary Simmons, Alicia's mother? We've just read the horrible story in the paper and I think we may need to discuss something….'  
'Is it incredibly important? I may have just reached a breakthrough in your daughter's case.'

'Well, yes really. You must promise not to judge our family of course because we had all good reason to do what we did, her attacking her father and all- we couldn't be having that in our house so adoption was the best option, she always was bad for holding grudges too and we haven't heard much from her at all for a few years so god knows where she is now but really I suppose it would be best if-'  
'Mrs Simmons, please just spit it out.'

'Well, it's Alicia. She has a twin sister.'


	10. Free Me

Mary Simmons' scarlet red nails tapped irritatingly against her coffee mug, and she was sucking in breaths through her teeth. Her hair was brittle and unwashed, and seemed to have been coming out in clumps. She sat in Sherlock's arm chair without hesitation, and John felt his left eye twitch slightly.

'You mentioned a twin. I need you to explain, now; Sherlock is stuck in prison for attacking a man on false charges and this could be his salvation.'

'Alicia's twin sister Rachel was given up for adoption two years ago. She was always a rotten, horrible child growing up- she'd make awful threats to her father and I, saying she'd hurt us or kill us or that we'd be sorry if we ever upset her. We argued constantly until one day she snapped and attacked her father. That's how he got that horrible scar; she slashed at his face with a knife.' She paused for breath and wiped away streams of black, eyeliner tinted tears.

'So you gave her up? Just gave her away to another family?'

'We had to make a decision. I realised that I'd be happier with the idea of her starting a new life instead of rotting away in prison, I couldn't bear the thought of her in a place like that-'

'It's not about her, it's about the good of the public. She attacked somebody and then she was abandoned by her family, so that can't be any good for her character.'

'I know, It was wrong of us and I'm s-sorry I'm just s-so s-sorry-' She began to cry harder and John crouched down by her feet, trying to meet her gaze.

'Where is she now?'

'We don't know. We didn't keep in contact with the family we gave her to after she left- she could be anywhere.'

'Mrs Simmons, I am very appreciative of your help. So if you don't mind, I need to investigate this further.' He linked his arm under hers and helped her up, wavering slightly as she struggled to hold herself up. He hailed for a taxi and hopped in, leaving her sitting on a bench and weeping silently. In any normal circumstances he would've cared, or worried about her. This time, he only had one person to worry about.

As he arrived at the abandoned factory, he decided to message for backup in case any of his theories were true.

_Lestrade,_

_Please send a team to abandoned textiles factory_

_Important_

_-JW_

On opening the factory doors, a world of dust hit the back of his throat and he instantly broke down into a fit of violent coughing and sneezing. His eyes began to water and he leant against the wall to steady himself. The bricks under his hand crumbled and disappeared, and he rubbed some of the orange dust between his fingers, confirming the origin of the murder weapon. When the air had cleared, he glanced up and heard a scuttling noise from the opposite end of the enormous hall. On investigation, he found a large mattress and blanket hidden away underneath one of the old metal sewing machines. There were some empty water bottles, Pringles tubes and old packets thrown around, as well as an old blood-soaked rag and a roughly folded pile of dirty clothes. John bent down to inspect the rag more closely and caught a glint of movement reflected in the large metal machine. He spun around and caught the hand flying rapidly towards his head, holding yet another brick.

Alicia Simmons was stood directly opposite him, caught in his grasp. At least, it looked like Alicia.

'Rachel?'

'Fuck off.'

'Rachel, why did you kill your sister?'

She had a vicious scowl on her face, and her entire body was filthy. Her clothes were ripped, her hair was unwashed and there was dried blood underneath her nails.

'You have no idea what it's like, living out here. The family they abandoned me with, even they wanted to give me up. Why should I have to live with horrible, idiotic people when my sister gets a nice comfortable home life? It's just not fair. It's not.'

'What would killing your sister possibly gain for you?'

'Satisfaction. A good home. He promised me a good home if I did it.'

'Who is he?'

She smirked.

Her other hand raised, clutching a tiny jagged piece of brick- no bigger than the palm of her hand. She smashed it against John's skull, causing his entire field of vision to flood a brilliant white, and he fell to one knee.

'Don't move, or we'll shoot.' Lestrade was stood at the entrance to the building, a pistol raised in one hand with Donavon by his side. Rachel scowled and raised her hands, dropping both bricks. Lestrade handcuffed her whilst Donavon helped John back to his feet, using the rag on the floor to apply pressure to his bleeding head.

'P-phone, check her phone' John stumbled and reached for the old nokia lying half concealed by the mattress. 'I think she sent the texts from Moriarty- Moriarty caused the murder, Sherlock was telling the truth. I swear he was-' he collapsed, and the world went dark.

'They checked her phone, and that's where the messages were sent from. I'm so extraordinarily proud of you; now please open your eyes.'

John's eyes fluttered open and they were met with the sparkling blue pupils of the man standing directly above his hospital bed. As their eyes met, Sherlock's mouth spread into a satisfied smile, and he crouched next to John's bed. John shook his head in disbelief, and winced as pain shocked through his entire body, striking every nerve down to the tips of his toes. Sherlock's face was so much fuller, and the colour in his cheeks had returned.

Sherlock grasped John's hand, and kissed the back of it lightly. 'How are you feeling?'

'I was a soldier.' John chuckled. 'I've dealt with worse. Give me ten minutes and I'll be on my feet again. What about Moriarty?'

'Well, he was already in prison, so he's just being kept longer. They're putting Rachel on trial too, although I'm quite certain that she'll be prosecuted.'

'Sherlock, let me stand.'

'I don't think that's a smart idea, give it a day or two and-'

'I can't hug you if I'm not standing.'

Sherlock stood back, still holding onto John's hand. He held out his opposite hand and John grasped it lightly, pulling himself onto the edge of the bed. He shuffled out and onto his feet, but stumbled as the room began to spin. There was a ferocious ringing between his ears and he felt the air rush past as he fell forwards- into the comforting soft embrace of Sherlock's arms. Sherlock held him close and stroked his back tenderly, muttering all kinds of wonderful things in his ear that made John forget about anything and everything for the next few minutes. He was happy- beautifully, wonderfully happy, and there was a man who loved him.

He pulled back and stamped his feet a few times to confirm that he wouldn't lose balance again, just glancing up in time to see Sherlock's mouth moving to meet his. The kiss was just as wonderful as the last, but less desperate. This time it felt like adulation and passion and infatuation and he could have lost himself entirely in Sherlock's overwhelming magnetism.

The entire hospital was staring and John couldn't have cared less, Sherlock's lips had moved down to his neck and were beginning to tickle and caress every sense in John's body. He felt himself losing control and was certain that if he didn't act soon he'd find himself removing any clothing he could get his hands on. He curled his fingers in Sherlock's soft, tousled hair and tugged gently, forcing him to move his head back. Any worries or doubts in John's mind dissolved as soon as he noticed the look on the captivated man's face. His eyes didn't just house lust or need, it was compassion. Sentiment, compassion, yearning, fondness, and love. Pure unrequited love. John hoped that his eyes were showing the same emotion because it was everything that he felt and more.

'Sherlock, can we go back to Baker Street? Maybe we could finish where we left off a long time ago.'

'The taxi is waiting outside. If you don't mind, I'd quite like to move onto that as soon as possible.'


	11. Fuck Me

Within milliseconds of stepping out of the taxi, John found himself pressed against the door of 221b Baker Street with one leg wrapped around Sherlock Holmes' hips and two invasive arms sliding underneath his shirt. Sherlock's mouth was hungry against his, moving with determined force that meant John had no hope in hell of controlling the encounter. He ran his hands through Sherlock's hair and gripped tightly, bringing their heads together as close as physically possible, and Sherlock changed the course of his hands; slipping them into John's trousers and digging his nails desperately into his thighs and arse. John's mouth wavered, his lips stuttering silently against Sherlock's, and he heard a gentle click as Sherlock twisted the door handle and unlocked it. The door swung open and John begun to untangle his arms and legs; losing all sense of control as Sherlock gripped both thighs and wrapped them once more around his back. Sherlock was holding him up and staring deeply and imposingly into his eyes as he walked upstairs to the apartment, not breaking contact for a second.

Their breath combined into a shroud of heat that engulfed all of John's senses, leaving him disorientated and breathless. He could feel the gentle warmth of Sherlock's lips travelling across his jaw line and down to the middle of his chest, and he snapped back to reality as he felt the back of his head hit the soft familiarity of his bedcovers. Sherlock was straddling his hips, frantically unbuttoning his shirt and tearing it slightly as he pulled it off. John bit the inside of his mouth to stop the gasp he felt escaping and he stared up, taking in the new sight and indulging in Sherlock's vulnerability. He was toned and smooth, the lines around his muscles clear and bulging. John reached up and traced the veins on Sherlock's biceps, shivering as Sherlock leant down and kissed each of his fingers tenderly.

'You've never been with a man before, have you John?'

'No. I'm going to be completely honest and say I'm clueless as to what to do next.'

'Do you trust me?'

'I _love _you, Sherlock.'

'And I love you too, so just follow me.'

John sat up against the headboard and Sherlock helped him remove his shirt, kissing him quickly as soon as his head reappeared. Sherlock stood and unbuckled his belt, stepping out of his jeans carefully as they fell to his ankles. John sat transfixed, staring as the light from the streetlamp outside the window highlighted every contour of Sherlock's slender form. His face was turned off to the side, and his dark brown hair was casually messed and sticking out in all directions. It made his profile even more striking, and John couldn't help standing slowly and reaching out to run his fingers through it. Sherlock gripped John's arse with his left hand and pulled him close, using his other hand to unbutton John's trousers and tug them down so John could lift his feet out of them easily. Sherlock took John's hand and stroked it tenderly over his erection, hissing at the unfamiliar contact. Touching Sherlock in so intimate a way snapped something inside of John, and, giving in to his newly-awakening sexual appetite, he slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of Sherlock's hips. John traced the length of Sherlock's notably large cock with his index finger, pressing it up against the bottom of Sherlock's stomach. He placed slow, gentle kisses through the fabric of Sherlock's underwear- following down from the tip to the base. Sherlock staggered back and rested his head against the apartment window, watching the man he used to call his best friend handle his cock with no visible reservations. 'You'd think-'John looked up at Sherlock, whose face was dotted with sweat, 'that having received one of these from a man already, I'd know what to do.' 'Try and think what you would want done to you.' Sherlock twisted John's hair between his fingers and smiled at him reassuringly. 'It's only natural you won't be amazing on your first time. We can work on that later.' John hesitated for a second, visualising what Sherlock had done to him previously. He snapped down the waistband of Sherlock's underwear so his erection sprung forward and rested gently against his lips, and he proceeded to spit on his hand. He heard Sherlock gulp and understood that he'd made a good move, beginning to slowly pump up and down Sherlock's overexcited cock. Sherlock's hips had already begun moving very slowly in time with his hand, and John decided to exact revenge on the many times he had been left wanting more. He very lightly brushed Sherlock's shaft and kissed underneath his belly button, trailing down with his lips and teasing around his thighs and dick. Sherlock practically growled and exhaled deeply, a sign that John was doing a good job of making Sherlock want him. He kissed and licked the shaft, circling the head with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock's breathing was shallow and controlled, with jagged moans occasionally escaping. He was trying and failing to contain his pleasure, and John could see the effect he was having. He slowly took Sherlock's balls into his mouth, playing with each one gently and feeling the tortured man tense up in every possible way. John gripped the base of Sherlock's cock gently, stroking up and down and following with his mouth. He let the tip drag across the roof of his mouth and savoured the feeling. He had never tasted anything like it before, and in any other circumstance he probably would have found it repulsive. The fact that it was Sherlock Holmes and he'd been fantasising about it for several weeks made it satisfying and pleasurable. John gagged as Sherlock instinctively arched his back, forcing his cock further into John's throat. He moaned and gripped John's head aggressively, thrusting his hips in rhythm until he was practically fucking John's mouth and John had to reach up and claw at Sherlock's chest to warn him that he was losing control. On his final thrust, Sherlock withdrew himself from John's mouth and sunk to the floor his breathing jagged and sluggish. John settled himself between Sherlock's hips, searching his eyes for any sign of regret or worry. 'Did I do something wrong?' 'No, oh goodness no John. That was- you are perfect. I just didn't want to cum just yet.' 'Why not? You seemed to be enjoying it- if I do say so myself.' 'I need to fuck you. I've been planning it for weeks and I've waited long enough.' John felt his cock twitch and his stomach drop. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Sherlock would have sex with him that night; he assumed that if any penetration would occur then it would be his control. He could've slapped himself for being so naïve- of course Sherlock would want to be the dominant partner. Sherlock Holmes was not a man for submission. 'You said you loved me? Prove it to me. Trust me enough to let me have you.' Sherlock dragged his fingertips down John's chest and traced the waistband of his underwear, snapping it teasingly and leaning forward, begging for permission. John gulped and slid his underwear off, standing in front of the bed and extending his hand to Sherlock. 'Tell me what to do. And please, be gentle. I know what you're like.' Sherlock stepped up to John and turned him around, so his erection was pressed against John's lower back. He brushed his hands across John's stomach and chest, kissing across his shoulders and biting gently at his neck. He rested his hand on John's shoulder and very slowly bent him forward, over the edge of the bed. 'I'm going to prepare you now John, so I want you to brace yourself.' John closed his eyes and began to stroke himself, focusing on the pleasure he was creating rather than the pain that was about to occur. Sherlock gently pressed one finger into him and he hissed, automatically tensing. 'You have to relax or this is going to be much more difficult than it should be.' John exhaled and Sherlock withdrew himself. 'Do we have lube?' John's words were barely a whisper, and his whole body was shaking. 'I've been prepared for a while. I have some here.' Sherlock reached under the bed and conjured a small clear bottle of lubricant, applying it liberally to three of his fingers. 'Three? Are you sure?' 'Not to flatter myself John, but I wouldn't exactly call myself average sized. I would rather die than cause too much pain to you, so I need to make sure that this goes as easily as possible.'

John gasped as Sherlock reinserted his finger, adding another and softly stroking circles around John's lower back. The sensation was alien to John- something altogether inexperienced. He clenched and Sherlock withdrew once more, leaning down to kiss John's neck and whisper to him;

'You need to trust me.'

A third finger was inserted and John grunted in discomfort, releasing staggered shaking breaths and continuing to jerk himself off.

'Do you think you're ready?' Sherlock began to slowly brush John's arse with the tip of his cock, making him tremble in anticipation.

'As ready as I'll ever be.' John winced and Sherlock spat onto the rim of his arse, making him twitch in shock. It was warm, and comforting to the burning pain that he had just experienced. The comfort didn't last for long as Sherlock began to push himself in slowly, causing John to cry out on pain and dig his fists into the bed sheets.

John certainly wasn't as ready as he thought he was. Sherlock wasn't even halfway in and a feeling of unbearable burning spread throughout his body- he was much larger than John had anticipated. Sherlock groaned and pushed in further, clawing at John's thighs desperately and pulling out smoothly and carefully. John felt as if his body was trying to reject the intrusion, the unknown object invading places that had never been touched before. With a husky moan, Sherlock thrust up further inside and John's eyes shot open, feeling his prostate being stimulated. He almost felt his entire body buzzing, and his arms and legs became numb to every feeling but pleasure.

Sherlock had hit a regular rhythm and moved John's hips further back onto his cock, reaching around to stroke John's erection while spitting ferocious mumbles of pleasure into his ear. John's eyes began to roll back in their sockets as he felt the repeated contact of Sherlock's cock with his prostate, and the combined euphoria of Sherlock's fist pumping his cock too brought him close to peak already.

'J-John, I'm going to cum, so if you wouldn't m-mind'- Sherlock pulled out and spun John around, so he was on his back. He straddled John's hips once more and grasped both of their cocks between his hands, stroking them as one and kissing John with every ounce of love and lust and need that he could show. John smiled against Sherlock's lips and held his head close, numb to the friction between them and silently wishing that they could stay in the moment for the rest of their lives. He decided then and there that all he ever wanted was to be with Sherlock Holmes.

He would never be alone again as long as he had the fantastic man to love and care for him, and he felt complete. Sherlock's lips hesitated against his as they came together, exhausted, and for what seemed like a lifetime they lay in silence until Sherlock kissed John on the forehead, whispered final words of love and moved him fully onto the bed, pulling the cover over them both and delicately falling asleep with John Watson in his arms.

The next morning, John awoke and stretched his arms out, turning to face the love of his life. He wasn't there. John panicked for a moment, wondering if the entire evening had been a dream and Sherlock was still locked up in Pentonville awaiting rescue, but he calmed himself down after seeing Sherlock's shoes by the bedroom door. He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and practically skipped into the living room, beaming as he saw Sherlock sitting at his computer with a cup of coffee.

'Good morning you. Didn't think about making me a cup of coffee then?' John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and it was shrugged off.

'You're perfectly capable of making your own coffee aren't you?'

'Well, yes I suppose.' John sighed. 'I knew it was a miracle hoping everything would change, but then I should be happy with the things that have happened already.'

'Nothing much has happened, really.' Sherlock stared at his computer unblinkingly and made no attempt to acknowledge John.

'Oh don't tell me you're going to do the whole 'back to work' act again, please. I've had enough waiting and pretending, can't we just be happy for once and accept that we're-'

'Oh yes, about last night. I suppose I should explain my experiment; I was conducting an experiment on how a man's sexual responses change when reacting to the idea of love. I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression John, but you were a marvellous subject and I got conclusive results, so thank you.'

'You- I'm sorry? You said-'

'Me? In love? You should know by now that I don't waste my time with such triviality.'


	12. With Me

For the next week, John and Sherlock said nothing to each other. John stayed at home, never daring to utter a word to Sherlock in case he collapsed into tears, and Sherlock continued his work, visibly unaffected by the absence of his friend's presence. John debated moving out, but quickly shrugged off his doubts as he realised even being in a different room from Sherlock made him anxious and uncomfortable. His hands began to shake once more, and he tried to convince himself that the return of his limp was due to the lack of movement he had been doing recently, although he knew that wasn't true in the slightest. His life had ground to a halt- nothing happened, he never left the house and he was beginning to recede into an unsociable shell of which he never wanted to return. As for Sherlock- he seemed to getting along quite comfortably, which made John's situation all the more torturous.

'Has there really not been a single case this week? It's already Friday and I've heard nothing.' John was grateful for Lestrade's company, it was the first time he'd spoken to another person in days.

'John, there's been three cases this week. I thought you helped solve them?'

John gulped and sighed, instantly recognizing what had happened. 'Sherlock didn't tell me. I suppose they're finished now?'

'Yeah, Sherlock closed the last case this morning. Are you two alright? Haven't seen much of you recently.'

The door flew open and Sherlock strutted inside, blatantly disregarding John and nodding in Lestrade's general direction.

'Good afternoon Lestrade, any reason you're here?'

'Nice to see you too Sherlock, and yes- as a matter of fact I'm just having a cup of coffee.'

'Oh, brilliant, you can get me one.' He sat at his desk and began typing, pausing only to glance at Lestrade when he didn't respond.

'This is your apartment! I'm not going to get you a cup of coffee- I'm the guest here!'

'And were you invited?''

'Yes, actually. John invited me.'

Sherlock faced his desk once more. 'Not too milky please, one sugar.'

'Of for god sake, I'll get your damn coffee. I know how you like it anyway.' John stood with difficulty, holding himself up on the side of his arm chair.

'Actually Lestrade, never mind. I don't really want a coffee anymore.' He didn't raise his head from the keyboard.

'You're acting like a child, this is pathetic. I'm getting your damn cup of coffee whether you want it or not- which you do. So if you still want to ignore me, then-FUCK' John's leg gave out beneath him and he fell to his knees, smacking his head on the table. The room began to spin and he was hit by a wave of nausea as he tried to stand up- only to collapse once more. Lestrade was on his feet in concern, reaching a hand out to help John up, and Sherlock had not moved from his seat. John felt helpless, lost, angry and betrayed, and for a split second - just the smallest of seconds – he began to wonder why he was continuing to persevere through an unhappy existence.

He realised then that it was all for Sherlock. Even if they would never again speak or acknowledge each other, he couldn't even begin to fathom the idea of leaving him. He would take 100 years of torture and silence just to be in the same room as the beautifully cold man, because he was the man he loved. It was due to this realisation that John wrapped his hands around his knees, and began to sob. Slow gentle sobs that were almost undetectable, but echoed around John's skull with the painful memories of the earlier time they had spent together. He sobbed because he realised that he would be stuck living this heart-tearing agony for as long as he loved Sherlock- which he was certain would be an eternity.

Sherlock rose to his feet silently, and stared vacantly towards the door.

'If you'll excuse me Lestrade, I need to visit the evidence locker. I won't be gone for long.'

He left silently, taking nothing. His coat and scarf remained on the hooks by the door; his phone was still on his desk and he had left his computer browser open.

'John, if you want me to help in any way-'

'I really appreciate your time Lestrade, but right now I just need to be alone- if that's alright with you?'

'Yeah that's no problem. I'll drop you a text at about 7, yeah? Just to check if you're ok.' And with that, he was gone. John pulled himself to his feet using the table edge, and reached for his crutch that was resting in the corner of the room. He limped over to the computer and glanced at the webpage that was left on the screen.

**_How to suppress strong emotional feelings- popular hypnosis and suggestion techniques to help remove unwanted emotions._**

**_Chapter one- Love._**

John stopped reading and exhaled in relief, letting comfort wash over him like a wave. Sherlock loved him, and he knew it. He needed to find a way to convince the stubborn man that love between two men had become more acceptable, and they could just go back to normal.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. John knew he should have minded his own business, ignored the text, but he couldn't help himself as he reached across and read it.

_I assume you know by now that going to the police and having me charged further will do nothing to save him. You're doing well, don't quit now- there's only a lifetime of it to endure. –JM_

Saliva caught the back of John's throat and he swallowed painfully, shaking his head to try and bring his steadiness back. He decided to scroll back further.

_Lisa has been a good little helper, sending these texts for me. The best part? If you tell anybody about her involvement, it'll only worsen his chances. – JM_

So Lisa had been sending the texts from Moriarty? She must have been the person who deleted them also- Sherlock had left his phone in the interrogation room when he stormed out. John scrolled back one further, to the text Sherlock had received the exact night they had spent together.

_Corpses are blue,_

_John's blood is red._

_Take back your love,_

_Or he will be dead. _

- _JM_

Ten minutes later, John awoke on the floor of 221B Baker Street after he had passed out in trepidation. He knew now that his life was being threatened, and there could be gunmen on him from anywhere. He would never be safe again, and Sherlock had lied to him so that he would be safe.

John had decided long ago that he wouldn't want to live in a world where he could never be happy with Sherlock. It was the only thing he wanted, and all he could dream about every day. He needed to find Sherlock and tell him; even if it meant that it would be the end of his life. He kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek as he left, almost confident that he wouldn't be returning, and made his way to the evidence office where he found Anderson sorting through old murder weapons.

'Anderson. Have you seen Sherlock?'

'Shouldn't you be keeping track of your boyfriend? I'm a very busy man.'

'Just tell me, yes or no.'

'Lucky for you, I have seen him. He passed by here about 10 minutes ago.'

'Did he pick anything up?'

'Yes, he did. I doubt he had permission to take anything, but then again he's never been one for decency, has he?'

'Look, I might not have much time. What did he take?'

'The bag of pills, confiscated from the taxi driver's cab. From the supposed suicide case?'

'Oh god no.' John rested his hand on Anderson's shoulder to stop himself from falling over once more, and was shrugged off.

'What on earth is your problem?'

'I- I need to go, sorry-'

John ran outside and glanced around desperately, with no idea what to do. It was clear that Sherlock had the same idea he did; but that couldn't happen. If there was one thing worse than not being with Sherlock, it was Sherlock not being alive. John doubled over and panted heavily, regaining his sanity and forcing himself to think straight. Sherlock wouldn't go anywhere to take his own life; he'd make a statement. He'd use somewhere they had been before- he was a show off like that. It had to be somewhere incredibly private however; somewhere that he could hide away without being discovered for a long time.

John hailed a taxi. 'The textiles factory in Brixton please, as fast as you can.'

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket.

_One final warning. If you two are seen together and everything is as it used to be, you will have five minutes before they open fire. – JM_

So he had five minutes. He just needed to keep Sherlock talking for five minutes, and then he could end it. The taxi skidded to a halt and he threw all of the money in his wallet through the slot in the window- he wouldn't need it anymore. Just as he had suspected, Sherlock was sat on one of the crumbled walls inside the factory, clutching the bag of pills in his shaking hand. The ceiling of the building was gone, and the walls had half collapsed- people on ground level would not be able to see a thing, however people on the high levels of the surrounding buildings would be able to see the entire thing if they were looking. Sherlock was mumbling under his breath.

_'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I love you and I'm sorry-' _his hands were trembling as he reached into the plastic bag.

'Don't you dare.' John stood behind him, sliding one hand sympathetically over his shoulder. Sherlock jumped and looked around frantically, hyperventilating.

'John? Leave, now. You can't be here, it's not safe- I need you to go, **_please._**'

'Nothing you can say will make me leave. I am entirely aware that my life is at risk, and there are probably several guns pointed at my head in this exact moment. However you should know that I would rather face the fury of every single one of those guns than spend another day without you in my life. I am not living my life pretending that I feel nothing towards you, because it would be impossible. I don't have feelings for you – my feelings ARE you. You are everything I am and more,invading every thought and dream and fantasy that I have ever experienced. To live without you would be abandoning every scrap of emotion that I have in my body, and nobody wants to live like that. So if these are my last moments, please, I would like to be granted a final wish- which is to spend them with you.'

Sherlock's eyes glistened and his cheeks were stained with pale tear lines.

'Do you understand John? Why I need to do this? You have just summarized everything I feel about you in a way I couldn't even begin to describe. You make me human, and a life without you – a cold, cruel life- would never be a life worth living. If you are killed now, and it's my fault, then I would never be able to live with the remorse, and would continue to take my own life anyway. I would much prefer to pass on knowing that you are safe and healthy.'

'I wouldn't be. I would never be safe with you gone. Or healthy. Christ Sherlock, I doubt I'd even be sane. I would lose every sense of myself that I ever was. If you go, then I go too – and you have no control over that.'

'You truly are incredible. Every single thing about you is just incandescent and perfect and radiant and brilliant and that is exactly why I refuse to carry on without you.'

'So how about we go together?'

'I can't ask such a thing of you.'

'If we go together, Moriarty loses. He has nobody left to torture or hurt. Without us, he'll be alone. He'll assume he's won but in the long run he'll have nothing left to live for. And we can be together.'

'Is that really what you would prefer?'

'Lying here with you eternally in peace over the prospect of facing every day alone and knowing that somewhere you're feeling the same? I'd take the first option any day. I'd say we have about a minute before they open fire.'

'No matter what happens, we'll both end up dead.'

'Exactly. So why not take control of that ourselves, and do it together.'

Sherlock pulled John into one final kiss; the goodbye kiss. The passion released itself along with the electricity. He urged for more and John gave it. Their lips fit around each other perfectly; hands tangling in hair and clutching desperately. Not wanting to let go, ever. Never ending compassion, long-going love. The one thing that nobody could take. John's hand fell to his side and Sherlock took it, passing over one pill.

'Are you sure?'

'I have never been more sure of anything in my life.'

Sherlock lay himself down on the floor and gently pulled John beside him, wrapping him in his arms so that their noses were lightly brushing. Their lips collided one final time, but the contact was barely there. John placed the pill in Sherlock's mouth, shivering as he knew they were past the point of return. Sherlock did the same, and they closed their eyes, lost in each other's presence. For the first time, everything was peaceful. There was no pain, no terror, no worry, no secrets. It was Sherlock and John, and John and Sherlock – and as the sun set and the darkness swept over the two entangled beings, they were together.

Forever and always.

* * *

AUTHOR NOTE!

I'd just like to thank you so much for sticking with this, and with me. My name is Hannah, I'm 16 years old, and this is my first proper fanfiction. I'd written scraps of fics in the past, but none that I'd really posted or completed. This is the first one I've been inspired to stick with until the very end. So thank you, having such an amazing response on my first has been so uplifting, and helped boost my confidence a hell of a lot. I couldn't be happier, even though the ending is so sad.

I may post more fics in the future, depending on the response that this gets!

xo


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